


dust to dust

by rhydonium



Series: a clan of three [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, F/M, Family Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Jealousy, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, Reader-Insert, Sickfic, Smut, Tender Sex, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27700996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhydonium/pseuds/rhydonium
Summary: The Child isn’t the only thing Din Djarin found on Arvala-7. In addition to the kid, he finds you with your shrouded past, about a million secrets, and a personality that makes him want to tear his hair out and kiss you at the same time.
Relationships: Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Din Djarin, Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Din Djarin & Reader, Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Reader, Cara Dune & Reader, Din Djarin & Cara Dune, Din Djarin & Reader, Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Series: a clan of three [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092671
Comments: 48
Kudos: 421





	dust to dust

**Author's Note:**

> i have no words. i am simply,,, thots empty,,, no spoilers for season 2!! for vibes, listen to dust to dust by the civil wars or really any yearning tender song. but that one especially :) season 2 adaptation coming when season 2 finishes!!! i promise sndlknsklnf there are some unanswered questions so :^)
> 
> i don’t own all the dialogue!! some of it is lifted from the show. enjoy!
> 
> crossposted on tumblr x

1\. 

Meeting the Mandalorian doesn’t go exactly how you thought it would. In fact, you never intended to meet him in the first place, yet here you are in his ship, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat and holding the kid in your lap as the three of you leave Arvala-7.

You don’t know what to make of him except that he has a quiet sense of honour towards his deals—a fairness, you guess. After all, he had taken you and the Child when you had made it clear that they come as a packaged deal or not at all. 

He hadn’t taken that quite as easy.

“ _My quarry is the kid. Not you.”_

_Your blaster aimed at his beskar helmet. “Either you take us both, or you leave empty-handed, Mandalorian. That tracking fob is for the both of us.”_

The ensuing scuffle had ended with blasters aimed at each other, a fair few punches shared, and a kick you landed to his crotch which was quite satisfying even though there was no decisive winner.

Safe to say, he’s glad you shot the droid who was about to pull his blaster on the kid anyway, so that might’ve added to his inclination to take you too. He’s a silent pilot, which you’re glad for, and a good one, too. They make great time to wherever they’re heading despite your reservations and the kid falls asleep in your arms pretty soon into it. Settling him in his crib awkwardly, you lean back into your seat, your cuffed hands beginning to get tired. 

“Who are you?” a modulated voice asks and you lift your head off your shoulder, opening your eyes. You’re falling asleep on your ass here, your hands reaching to hold onto the crib again. Tiny fingers stretch to touch yours. You don’t know if you’re imagining it but the kid seems to try to take hold of your fingertips.

“Just the kid’s caretaker,” you reply shortly. He flips some switches portside. 

“Do you know what he did with the mudhorn? What that was?”

“Yes.” You bite your cheek, remembering the Force lift the kid did on the creature. Turning to look into the pram, you lean over and hold onto the sleeping child’s fingers before shaking your head. Remembering that the Mandalorian can’t see you, you say, “It’s just something he’s been doing for a while. Not often, but enough to know that that wasn’t a one time thing.”

He doesn’t question it. “How long have you been his caretaker?”

“A few years. Since the Battle of Yavin.” You shrug. “I know a lot of people are looking after him, and I do what I do to keep him safe.” You know your role as the Child’s protector has earned you a reputation despite you rarely leaving Arvala-7, and as the Mandalorian sets co-ordinates you recognize as Nevarro, you wonder if whoever hired him told him that there’s an addition to the Asset or let him figure it out to add a bit of fun. “You’re an asshole for turning in a fucking kid, you know that?”

Nothing. 

“I’ll escape with him anyway.” Joints cracking, you roll your shoulders back. “ _That_ is certain.” This time, he doesn’t reply and you let out a sharp exhale, shaking your head. Grabbing the blanket he so graciously provisioned to you and throwing it over your shoulder haphazardly, you run a finger over the curve of the kid’s ears. “I’m getting some shuteye. Let me know when you’re about to turn us in.” You turn to head out of the cockpit when you hear him call your name, and you pause, glancing over your shoulder.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you?” you echo, confused. Now he’s _thanking_ you? “For what?”

“When I fell off the sandcrawler, with the Jawas and the mudhorn.”

 _Oh._ When you leaned over him and woke him up, when you helped him grab a stupid fucking egg for the Jawas and helped repair his piece of junk ship. _That._

“I may have been a bitch, but I wasn’t about to let you die on me with these cuffs on. Nor do I want to be stuck with that Ugnaught. No offence to him,” you tell him frankly, and you think it might’ve made him smile or laugh or something because he’s silent for a moment before you continue, “There’s no point. We’re the quarry, you’re the hunter. That’s not going to change over a course of a few days.”

“Still. I can only offer my thanks. You didn’t have to help me.”

“No good for the kid to see us fight. It’s complicated enough as it is,” you murmur, and he swivels the pilot seat. You look into his black visor and offer a grim smile. “Let’s make the handoff easy, alright? One and done.”

“Not your first time?”

“You get used to threats on your life, wouldn’t you agree? Sometimes, it does get pretty close.” He doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets you leave the cockpit and head down the ladder. Shifting the heavy blanket around your shoulders and letting it fall messily over you, you glance at the weapons locker he had opened earlier and you situate yourself right next to it, leaning against the wall of the _Razor Crest._

It’s been a long day. Days. You can’t even remember at this point.

All you know is you’re sick of people trying to kill you and the kid, threatening the one scrap of family you have left ever since the Empire sent everything to shit. You know the Child is what they want, and that at best, you’ll probably be thrown away like some second-rate scum. At best, they don’t realize who you are.

And if the Mandalorian can bring you close to the man who’s been making your life a busy, blaster-full hell, well…

Well, who are you to pass up on the opportunity to kill him?

.

The cockpit door slides open and you rub at your mouth as you spot the kid unscrewing the ball on one of the Mandalorian’s controls. Suppressing a smile, you watch the transmission instead—some blue hologram of a man talking about delivery of the quarry and you roll your eyes. 

Guild agents, all the same.

_“…Safe passage! You know where to find me.”_

He turns the transmission off and you step into the cockpit when he finally notices the kid biting down on the ball.

“It’s not a toy.”

Grabbing him by the back of his robes, the Mandalorian moves him back to his pram and you snort, sitting in the other co-pilot’s seat. The baby coos in disappointment, ears flopping and you reach over, brushing your thumb over his wrinkly forehead. Nevarro is just up ahead and the Mandalorian reaches up to flip a switch.

“He’s bored,” you tell him. “Back on Arvala-7, we had toys and shit, you know. Kept him in busy in that base.” The Mandalorian doesn’t respond and you surrender your hand to the baby’s incessant pulling and tugging. “Did you feed him?”

“Yes.”

“Soup? Or solids?”

“Softened meats,” he replies.

“Okay, good.” Picking him up out of the pram as smoothly as you can with cuffed wrists, you nestle the kid against your chest as they begin the descent back onto Nevarro. He lets out a little coo and you smile, readjusting so he’s in the crook of your elbow and against your chest. Giving him the fingers of your free hand, you watch in bemusement as he pulls the ring off your thumb, biting down on it and you smile fondly, kissing his forehead. Glancing at the pilot, you catch the side of his beskar helmet, as if he’d been watching and your stare turns cold as you silently tell him to watch where he’s going. The metal glints in the light of Nevarro’s grey skies when the Mandalorian turns back.

The _Razor Crest_ lands softly, but the impact spooks the kid and he drops your ring with a whine, the silver metal _pinging_ against the bottom of the cockpit. Putting him back in his crib, you lean down to search for the metal ring, your heart twisting in panic when you don’t see it immediately. Not under the seat, not on it. It must’ve skidded when the pressure stabilized. 

For Maker’s sake.

“You just had to drop it, huh, you little womp rat?” you chastise, raising your head and mockingly glaring at the kid, keeping your tone light. You try to tell yourself you don’t mind—you don’t want your grandfather’s ring on you when you might die today—but a part of you wishes that you’ll have his spirit beside you when you kill the man who’s made your life a living hell for nearly a decade.

The Mandalorian stands and you let him pass by you first before descending down the ladder with him. 

“Stick close to me,” he says as you land on your feet, glancing up at him with a quirked eyebrow but he merely stares at you indifferently. Your wriggle your wrists to emphasize the fact that it’s quite difficult to do so otherwise.

“Don’t trust me?” you ask dryly, knowing you won’t get a thing out of him. The ramp lowers quickly, the silence nearly suffocating. You think the Mandalorian has some questions he wants to ask but you know Guild rules are no questions _can_ be asked after you’re delivered, so you don’t prompt it either because… because you don’t know. Maybe because it might make you want to stay, talk—

Maybe… somehow, if they’d met under different circumstances.

Not that you want to. This man’s delivering a _child_ to obviously bad guys. Where are the moral qualms about that?

The first thing you realize is Nevarro is a dusty shit hole. You have never been here before, but you’ve seen it on the maps. The sky is a pale grey-blue streak, the buildings are ashy grey and cement, and the people—the people don’t seem to the most friendly. You can taste the hostility on your tongue as they walk through the town, the child’s pram floating beween them, down some back-alley shit hole that smells like day-old piss.

He knocks on the rusted green door, showing the chit to the gatekeeper droid and you flex your hands when the manacles seem to tighten. Glancing at the pram, you twist and run your index finger and thumb along the kid’s ears before the door opens. Imperial bucketheads step out, and you keep stroking the kid’s ear when he lets out an anxious coo.

You look at the Mandalorian. He stares back.

Then, he silently tells you to step into the darkness after the kid, and you do so, knowing a blaster is aimed into your back. The door closes behind you and as the Mandalorian walks up next to the pram, you’re left at the back with your new Stormtrooper buddy. Just as you predicted, a blaster jabs into your spine after the first three steps, sending you stumbling forward when the buckethead doesn’t think you’re walking fast enough and you wince as the other Stormtrooper grabs the crib hard enough that it wobbles.

“Would it kill you to fuck off?” you snap to your guard and he raises his blaster as if he’s about to club you as the Mandalorian tells the other guard in more polite terms _hands off the crib._ Turning back around, your shoulders rise as you prepare for a whack that’ll knock you out cold but it doesn’t come as they reach another room. A desk in what looks like a very big office or study of some sort.

The man sitting behind it immediately stands once he catches sight of you, and the triumphant smile slips off his face when he sees you.

 _Him. Fucking him._ You wish you could rip your binders off, grab the blaster from the Mandalorian’s belt and end the old man’s life right then and there.

You haven’t seen him for years. Not since you landed on Arvala-7, looking for a place to lay low and finding a baby instead.

“Oh, great. You’re still alive,” you spit as he approaches and the Stormtrooper pushes you forward into line with the baby. “Why haven’t you died of a heart attack yet?”

“And it surprises me that you still live as well, girl. I did not think that would be the case, considering the retrieval of the quarry.”

“Piss off.”

Now _that_ gets you a firm wallop with the backhand of a Stormtrooper gauntlet. Your head jerks forward and you let out a groan as another figure approaches. It’s only then you become aware of the beeping of the tracking fob and you open your eyes to see the black-dotted image of the crib moving towards the old man.

“Stay away from him,” you snarl, stepping forward only for the Trooper to grab you by the elbows and haul you back before kicking your knees out from under you. Raising your head wretchedly despite the blooming ache behind your eyes and at the crown of your head, you watch as the other man, younger, with brown skin and an appearance that reminds of some lab tech, leans over and scans the kid.

“Very healthy,” he reports as the device beeps. “Yes.”

“And her as well. Now that we have her alive, we might as well make use of this gift, doctor.” The Client straightens up, looking at the Mandalorian as the doctor approaches you and you try to wriggle free, your skin twisting and chafing with how much you try to move out of the cuffs. The red grid light is blinding and you squeeze your eyes tight as he gets your biometrics.

“What? Why don’t you just kill me?” you spit. 

“You have your uses.” You try to fight the panic welling inside you at that remark. _Shit. Shit. Shit. Do they know? No, shit, fuck, fuck, FUCK._ “It is not necessary, but the addition is welcome,” the man muses.

The device beeps and the doctor lowers it. “Healthy.” He returns to the kid, inspecting him curiously and you sense no ill will in him. Just genuine curiosity. The man however. The Client.

“Very good. Your reputation,” he directs this at the hunter, “was not unwarranted.”

What a piece of shit.

“How many fobs did you give out?” inquires the Mandalorian as you blink the red light out of your eyes and you glance down at your cuffs. Fuck, if you could just get a grasp on yourself, you could kill him right now. Fucking stars in your eyes, can’t see straight— “And why wasn’t I told about her?”

“This asset was of extreme importance to me. The woman was secondary. She has killed many who have attempted to take it and before that, she was a thorn in the Empire’s side. Her life is of no great value to me. I had to ensure its delivery, and she stood in the way of your task.” You don’t know if you imagine it but the Mandalorian’s fist seems to tighten. “But to the winner…” You feel something warm touch your neck and you turn around, but the Stormtrooper wrenches you forward again as the Client pulls out the camtono. “…go the spoils.”

You know what it is immediately within the moment you set eyes on it.

Beskar. _Loads_ of it. Enough to last you lifetimes if you sold it. _Shit,_ so much money you could find a planet to live the rest of your days in peace with the kid. The Mandalorian goes up to inspect it.

“Such a large bounty for such a small package,” the Client remarks as they begin to lead the kid away and you lunge forward, grunting against the Stormtrooper’s clamping grip. 

“Hey! Hey, don’t touch him!” Your knees slide against the metal floor as you try to scramble for him. “You want me? You got me, you bastard!” 

The Stormtroopers aren’t so kind this time. You hear the other one come up before you see him and when you thrash around to look, it’s to the butt of a rifle descending down on your head. 

_CRACK._

Stars explode in your vision and you feel yourself black-out cold, slamming into the ground without a second thought. You come to a moment later, the ground cold against your flaming cheek, and you’re made aware of the warmness on your skin again, except this time, you can see it. Your blood, dripping across your brow, nearly into your eyes but you keep blinking despite how much everything hurts.

“And something extra, too, for your troubles with the woman,” the Client adds and you wrench your head up, wretchedly staring at the pouch of credits. He hesitates, staring at the pouch before looking at you writhing on the ground.

“You piece of shit!” Your words sound distant from your own mouth as you try to shift back onto your knees but you feel sluggish, your world tilted as you try to push up from your shoulders. The baby’s cries echo in your ears and blood drips down your brow as you squeeze your eyes tight. Your head is blistering with pain and you can barely hear the Mandalorian’s voice as you press your forehead into the cold metal, pushing your palms into the floor. “Let me go. I’m nobody, you bastard, and you fucking _know_ it—”

As soon as you rise even an inch off the ground, you are slammed back down again, this time, a hit to the back of your skull that sends you sprawling, chin bumping against the hard ground. Groaning, you roll onto your side, refusing to close your eyes until the agony grows into a pain you could use as fuel to punch through beskar. Hands curling into fists, you clutch onto the front of your jacket to prevent from screaming, your knees bending up to your chest.

The Mandalorian’s voice, tinted with something else: “What are your plans for them?”

“How uncharacteristic of one of your reputation.” Hands grab your elbows, hauling you up and your head hangs as the Client continues. Blood drips onto the floor in fat droplets. “You have taken both commission and payment.” Body limp, you watch the floor below you slide as they haul you the same way as the kid and you try to fight, you do, but you feel like you can barely remember how to breathe as the doors slide open. “Is it not the Code of the Guild that these events are now forgotten?” 

The hallway they drag you into is darker, more secluded, and the voices fade as your head lolls. Lights flash above you, white and blinding despite you not even facing it, and you squeeze your eyes shut as your boots skid along the floor. 

“What’s he even want with her?” you hear one of the Stormtroopers mutter, filtered voice louder than he probably wanted it to be, but you don’t care. Any sound right now is the equivalent of someone screaming into the ear of someone who’s had a night sloshed in hooch. “She’s just some nobody, right?”

“No idea. Who knows if he wants to eat that other thing or not either. It’s way above our pay grade.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

They drag you into some room you don’t get the perimeters of because as soon as they dump you on the cot, you’re cloaked in darkness. There is no light, and when the door shuts, you are left alone with your blood and thoughts.

2.

When you wake up next, it is to the door opening. Raising your head jerkingly, your whole head flips and turns, a ball of pain nestled behind your eyeballs. _Mother of—_

“Oh, good. You’re—you’re awake.” Lights flicker on, dim and yellow, and you raise a hand sloppily. Inching further up the cot, your shoulder finds the wall and you shove yourself into the corner, your other hand reaching for your boot before remembering you lost your knife fighting the Mandalorian.

Shit.

“I am Dr. Pershing.”

“Where is he?” you ask, hating how shaky your voice is with pain and exhaustion. “The Child. Where is he?”

“Sleeping,” the man murmurs, coming to crouch beside your bed and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m supposed to conduct more tests, to extract material we need from it but we’re supposed to deliver it alive.”

“‘Deliver it alive’?” you repeat. “He was already delivered to you. What do you want?”

“You took quite a hit from the trooper.” You can hear his heart rate as loudly as your own when it picks up and you frown, lowering your cuffed hands. “I’m here to make sure no permanent damage was done.”

“You’re lying.” Eyebrows furrowing together in confusion, you’re about to ask about it when the door slides open again with Troopers waiting. Dr. Pershing stands, whipping around and his expression morphs into one of shock when they storm in, grabbing you by the elbows. 

“Wait, I have more time—“

“He wants tests to be conducted _now_ , doctor,” one of the bucketheads informs flatly and you let out a grunt as they haul you off the bed, your legs slamming awkwardly into the ground. “The Moff requires the intel she has as soon as possible.”

 _Intel? The Moff? Shit,_ **_no,_ ** _—_

“But she isn’t ready—“

“And he would like to speak with you,” another Stormtrooper interrupts. “He insists you find him at your discretion after you have begun the tests on this subject.”

Dr. Pershing hesitates and you tilt your head towards him, catching sight of his face. He looks mortified as they drag you out of your room and you groan, trying to catch your footing but your knees still feel wobbly. Your vision swims in and out of focus, you turn so many times in the facility you can’t remember where you came from with 100% accuracy, and when another set of doors open, you don’t even register it until they are lifting you onto a table and strapping you to it.

“What are you doing?” you mumble, lifting your head that weighs a million pounds as they lower a biometric scanner over your stomach to make sure you don’t die or some shit on their watch. Looking down the length of your body, you spot a mirror on the other end of the room and you squint, trying to make sense of your reflection. Blood stripes your face in dark dried streaks, and you can see a bit of it along your neck, probably the reason why your neck feels like it’s so dry and crackly.

The Stormtroopers leave without another word and you let your head fall back with a heavy sigh. You’re fucking exhausted and you have no idea what time of day it is. You’re not even sure how long you wre asleep for.

Yanking at your wrists and ankles, you grunt at the metal manacles chaining you to the exam table just as something powering up catches your attention. Eyes flitting to a black round droid to your left, your chest tightens when you recognize what it is.

_IT-O interrogation unit._

You’ve heard stories about this droid, about its capabilities.

People go insane from the pain, or maybe it’s the loneliness, knowing that the only one who can hear them is a droid that doesn’t care. Your feet try to move up but bang against the cuffs instead and you suck in a sharp breath when it starts to move towards you, tools springing out of that round body. Probes, needles, a drill. It beeps when it comes closer, swivelling as if scanning the length of its target, and you stiffen as it nears your head. It’s obviously detected blood—an already weak-point, and your hands go rigid as the needle comes closer.

Your scream echoes in your ears, and you don’t remember what happens next except pain.

.

“Still, nothing.”

“No, sir.”

“Remarkable. Her vitals are still steady?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Return to the Asset. Once we deliver him, we will be able to focus all our attention on her.”

The door hisses open and shut and you turn your head blearily to the sound, trying to remember what it is to open your eyes. Your vocal cords are scratchy, raw, and you hear someone still in the room. The droid humming is noticeably absent.

“Don’t try to speak.” Dr. Pershing. “He’s gone for now, but I don’t have much time. Lift your head.” A warm hand cups the base of your skull while another smears something against your skin, warm like a mother’s embrace and your heart wilts at the sensation as the pain in your neck eases. The entry points of the needles—the tiny points where that fucking droid stabbed into your neck—complain, a fiery soreness that paralyzes you. “It’s bacta cream. I’m hoping it’ll lessen the pain before the torture must continue.”

“Let me go,” you whisper through clenched teeth. It’s like his fingers are prodding against your brain before he pulls back, ripping his gloves off. 

“I can’t. They’ll know it was me,” Dr. Pershing replies quietly as a deluge of coolness floods your head, chasing way the soreness, the agony stiffening every inch of your body. “I’m sorry. This is all I can do. I have to go. You must do the rest on your own.” Your eyes flutter open to see his face and you see the genuine guilt plaguing his face clear as day. Turning your head, you watch him go, the door swishing shut behind him. Groaning, you turn your gaze back to the blinding examination lights burning into your skin just as the droid powers up again. Your wrist twisting, you feel something follow the motion of your hand.

The droid glides over to your bedside smoothly, and you turn to it, eyes widening. You lift your head curiously, the warmth extending down to the tips of your digits as the droid tries to move but swerves back to its original position. Stiffening your fingers, you watch the droid freeze mid-unfold of its torture devices and let out a relieved sigh when the bacta cream keeps doing the Maker’s work. The cut on your head stops stinging. You think it’s even closing up a bit as you roll your hand into a fist and the delicious sound of metal crunching fills the empty room. Tightening your fist, you hear wires snap and something _spark_ and _crack_ before you let go and the interrogation unit falls to the ground like a hunk of junk.

Your head falls back to the table and you let out a delirious laugh, chest heaving for breath and you can’t help yourself, the way you keep laughing and laughing, so loud you’re sure someone will hear you just as the lights flicker off. Your laughter freezes in your chest for a moment, the alarm sounding off seconds later and then you can’t help it—that infectious bubbling feeling comes again when the cuffs come off due to the power shortage.

Moving your joints out of its grasp, you pull the monitor off your stomach and sit up, world spinning immediately. You lean forward, closing your eyes tight. Straddling the table, you plant your palms into the metal and feel the vibrations within it. The emergency lights turn on with a heavy _shunk_ seconds later and the lab is illuminated in warm yellow again as you painfully swing a leg over and hop off the exam table with a splintering sensation shooting up your shins.

Wincing, you use the exam table for balance, trying to regain your balance and your strength as you bend over the droid, ripping off the scalpel from one of its extended limbs before limping over to the door, slamming a fist on the button. The door slides open and you shake yourself out, following the vague memory of the path you took.

There’s still time for you to get the kid first and catch up to that old man second. Sink this scalpel right where it belongs. It’s too quick a death, you know, but it’s efficient. 

First, the kid. And if you can only take that, then fine. This was way messier than you anticipated. You didn’t fucking think that man ever wanted _you._ That it was him in the first place.

Hobbling down the hallway, you try to wrap your head around the layout of the facility, tracing your path back to the room you were held before the torture.

Trying to think back, your brain aches, the knot in the center of your skull tightening when you rerun every minute of living agony, trying to get back to that moment. Keeping to the wall, you tighten your grip on the scalpel as the sound of Troopers running catch your attention.

Passing a supply room, the door opens and you duck inside, crouching behind stacked crates. The room is lit in green-blue, a sickly cold colour that paints grey even more inhumane than it already is. You push yourself on, clenching your jaw when the door opens again and your head jerks up just as the lights go out. Blasters ping, red bolts blinding as you spot a figure resembling your pal the Mandalorian ducking for cover.

That piece of Bantha crap. He actually came back for the kid.

“Split up! We’ll flush him out.”

“Copy.”

Stretching your fingers along the hilt of your blade, you watch as one of those bucketbrains turn on its flashlight just a few paces from you and you spring out, wrapping your arm around his helmet and yanking his head back before sinking the scalpel into his exposed neck He doesn’t so much as make a gurgle, red blood pouring over your fingers as you drag him into your hiding spot, settling him down gently and grabbing his rifle. Standard issue E-11. No big deal—it’s like other rifles you’ve taken to in the past. 

Palming the grip, you get used to the weight just as the other Stormtrooper talks and you poke out from behind the crates, aiming your new rifle at him when suddenly, he gets socked in the jaw and taken down, and you know it’s the Mandalorian for sure.

“Hey!” Both of them whip around to the entrance to the storage room and you pull the trigger without a second thought, pinning the guy and burning a hole in his white helmet. He falls, dead, and you pull the strap of the gun, hoisting it onto your shoulder with a sigh before looking at the Mandalorian.

“You came back,” you say.

“You escaped.”

“Said I would, wouldn’t I? You got the kid?” You nod to the bundle in his arms and he extends it to you. Walking over him as normally as you can, you take the kid in your aching arms and let out a sigh when you see he’s still sleeping. “Oh, thank the Maker.” 

“You’re hurt?” He nods to the blood on your clothes and you look down before shaking your head.

“Save it for later,” you remind him coldly, keeping the Child in one arm and your rifle in the other. “First, we have to fight our way out of here.”

.

The pain eventually comes back, stronger and heavier, more debilitating than before despite your head no longer swimming and your vision clear.

No, it’s everything else that’s on fucking fire. You’ve handed the kid back to the Mandalorian, trying to focus more on keeping up with how much you never realized you were bleeding and staying alert, your grip on the E-11 never faltering.

All in all, for being tortured, concussed, and having an all-around shitty week, you’re feeling kinda decent.

It’s not until the Mandalorian flings you into the speeder helmed by an R6 do you truly feel, deep in the pits of who you are, your soul or whatever, the depths of the shitty shape your body’s in. Barking at you to return fire, the Mandalorian keeps the kid covered with his beskar-covered body and the two of them try to shoot their way out, but there’s so fucking many that there is no way they can get out of this. 

You like incredibly uneven odds, but in this state, your confidence is less than certain.

As you stare into death, trade blaster bolts with the Guild while Din makes sure the kid is covered, you wonder if this is really it. 

Thank the Maker for the Mandalorians.

Just not the one beside you. 

He grabs you by the arm, hoisting you up, and you barely hear his filtered voice over the sound of plasma _pinging_ in the night. “Can you stand?”

“Fuck you, yes, I can!” you shout back, sliding your arm along his shoulders and letting him hoist you out. Landing on your feet, you make a mad dash for the arch marking the boundary of the city, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is following. Feet pounding against the hard dirt, your heart skips from your chest to your throat, blood roaring in your ears as you push yourself forward, ignoring the nausea swimming in your stomach and the strange sensation of your ankles bending and snapping.

Reaching his ship, you run up the ramp and collapse, your shins feeling like they’re splintering with every step. Knees smashing into the floor of the _Crest,_ you pitch forward and stabilize yourself with your hands on the floor. Gasping for air, you really do feel like you’re about to throw up as you look over your shoulder and catch of glimpse of the Mandalorian not far behind. He stops beside you, grabbing your bicep and helping you up again. Palm finding his back, you hobble together deeper into the _Crest_ just as the of footsteps alerts you to another presence.

Tugging on the Mandalorian’s cape, you turn around to see the one in the transmission, the Guild agent, crawling down the ladder. Grabbing your blaster rifle, you move to fire but he shoots first, a warning shot at your feet.

“Hold it.” You let the rifle go, let it swing by the strap on your shoulder and the Mandalorian silently moves. It’s subtle, the way he covers you with his shoulder. You scowl painfully at his pauldron. “I didn’t want it to come to this. But then you broke the Code, Mando.”

Acid crawls up your mouth and you swallow your heart as your eyes flicker over the surroundings. You’re still not familiar enough with this ship. Your discarded blanket folded neatly by the weapons rack, a carbonite freezing chamber. Shit, you just know the Mandalorian has a blaster aimed right at him and even _he_ won’t be able to draw faster than this guy with a finger on the trigger.

Good thing the guy on your side isn’t all looks.

Ascending into the cockpit after the Mandalorian got a good heart-shot on the Guild agent, you let out a painful sigh when you finally collapse in his co-pilot’s seat. You feel exhausted, the kind of tired you can’t chase off with a nap, and as your pilot takes off from Nevarro, commenting on the jetpack or whatever the fuck some of his buddies had, you wish you could sleep.

But you can’t. Your mind is too awake with the images burned into you just an hour or so earlier. The kid waddles up to you, tugging on your shoelaces and you look down at him wearily. He’s holding a ball, the ball he twisted off the Mandalorian’s joystick earlier and you smile faintly, leaning down with a groan and picking him up. He settles immediately in the circle of your arms, content to just sit in your lap while the Mandalorian flies and you tilt your head back.

“You came back,” you croak out at last.

“I was trying to find you,” he replies softly, turning his head just enough you catch the side of his helmet. “You escaped before I could.”

“Impressed, yet?” Your lungs still struggling to get enough oxygen into your system, you raise your head when something squelches and you glance down at your shirt. Tiny incisions have been littered all over your body. You’ll need some bacta mist, a healthy dose of sleep. “Shit.”

The Mandalorian turns at the sound of your pained hiss. “You’re injured.”

“I’ll be fine—” He gets up, disappearing for a quick moment and you roll your eyes, glancing down at the kid.

“You hear me, kiddo?” you ask rhetorically. “He’s gonna go waste his supplies on a bunch of tiny cuts.” The kid coos and you sigh, taking the proffered ball and rolling it fluidly between your fingers. “It’s been a long day.”

The baby cocks his head and you flip your hand, transferring the ball from the back of your pinkie and ring finger to between your thumb and index. He lets out a delighted gargle and you hand the ball back to him to which he immediately bites down on it just as the sound of the Mandalorian’s footsteps alert you to his return.

“Here.”

Looking up, you see him holding a medpac. Taking it with the hand not holding the kid, you perch it on your lap just as he gently picks him up. 

“I’ll watch him. Use the spray, then, get some sleep,” he orders quietly, sitting down again. You smile at the way the Mandalorian puts the baby on his lap and keeps him there with a large hand. As you pull out a white bottle with a nozzle, he gets back to work, flicking on some switches and already charting a new nav point.

“Already on it, sir,” you shoot back, fatigue so evident in your tone you could put someone to sleep with it. Twisting the cap off, you shake the spray bottle and glance at the Mandalorian. When he doesn’t look, you just shake your head again and begin to spray.

Soon enough, you fall asleep to the gentle hum of the hyperdrive.

.

When you wake, you are not in the co-pilot’s seat and you sit up, eyes springing open. Your body screeches in soreness, your muscles tight along your back, your calves, your hamstrings, everywhere, honestly, but the pain isn’t there anymore as you experimentally stretch your arms and legs. Just residual aching.

Shit, you feel better already. 

Glancing around, you realize you’re in some sort of container—a sleeping pod almost and you sit up, crawling forward to the foot of the bed just as the door opens and your eyebrows shoot up when you look into the face of a beskar helmet.

“Morning?” you try, scooting to the edge of the cot and letting your legs hang off the edge. Your feet brush the ground and it’s cold, and for the first time, you realize you don’t have your boots on. Staring down at your feet, your brow wrinkles. “Where are my boots?”

“I took them off.”

“You did?”

A beat. “Yes.”

“And it’s safe to assume you carried me in here, too?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Disconcerted, you wrap your fingers over the edge of the sleeping pod. It’s so quiet, and you don’t see the kid in sight, but you have no doubt in your mind Mando’s got him sleeping somewhere. Somehow. You don’t know. You’re just… as guilty as it sounds… glad you don’t have to worry about him for the moment. 

_Wait,_ a voice argues, _when did he become just ‘Mando’?_ Shit. Somewhere between carrying you to bed and pulling off your boots, a fucking line was crossed and you clear your throat at the revelation, shifting uncomfortably. 

Awkwardly, you ask, “So, what now?”

“Well, I have something for you. You lost it before we got off on Nevarro.” He raises his glove and pinched between his thumb and index finger is something silver, glinting as it moves back and forth in his grip. Lips parting, you stare at the band, raising a bruised hand shakily for it.

“My ring,” you murmur, plucking it from him and sliding it back onto your thumb. You shoot him an incredulous smile. “Where did you find it?”

“I stepped on it,” he replies as you marvel at the fit. You couldn’t even remember the feel of it until now and as you twist the metal against your skin, you can’t help but feel… 

Shit. You shouldn’t feel grateful. He handed over you to those Imps, got you tortured, tracked you in the first place.

But he came back.

_Shit. Maybe he does have a moral code after all._

“I didn’t know it was a child until I found you both,” he continues quietly. “Then, I was bound to the Guild’s rules. I would never hurt a child. I apologize for that.” You give him a small nod. 

“I believe you. And… and these rules don’t mean anything to you anymore?” you ask quietly, and his helmet tilts as if he’s inspecting your expression. You rephrase: “You came back for him.”

“Yes.”

“You chose the kid over the Guild.” _Chose me._ Well, that’s pushing it, yet all the same. He could’ve left you there if he was only there for the kid, but he protected you, too. Told you he searched for you.

“Yes.”

It’s like you can heave a heavy breath again as your shoulders drop and you look at Mando with a furrowed brow and a curiosity that you never knew was there. Quietly, you say: “Thank you.” 

He merely dips his head and straightens. “The kid’s asleep for now, but they will come for him. Take your pick from my arsenal and be prepared.” He taps a code into his gauntlet and his armoury opens up before he steps aside. “You were asleep for a few days. Whatever they did to you, it took a real toll on your body, but if you’re up, then you’re better.”

“They tortured me,” you tell him quietly, index finger playing with the ring absently. Looking up at Mando, you give him a smile with no merit. “I’ll be okay.” He nods again and turns to climb up the ladder and you watch him go before spotting your boots, cleaned and re-laced by the weapons arsenal.

 _Hunter with a heart, huh,_ you muse, reaching forward slowly to ease the cramping in your stomach and back. Pulling out the socks within, you pull those on before stuffing your feet into your boots and lacing them up to the nines again, tight enough it could cut off circulation if you weren’t used to it.

Wiggling your toes, you stand up and take a few hesitant steps forward to stop before the weapons arsenal and you look around his collection, trying to decide what’d be best for you. Palming a few blaster pistols, you choose one that fits the easiest in your hand before grabbing one of his vibroblades and sticking it in your boot to replace the one you’d lost. 

Turning to climb up the ladder, you return to the cockpit and sit down in your usual spot to his left.

“Find anything you like?”

“A pistol. I’ll need to find a holster for it, but it’ll do for now. I also took one of your vibroblades.” You bite on your lip, trying to get a glance at the nav console to determine their location before your next question, seeing as this relationship is newly minted, and you decide to just go for it anyway.

You may be mouthy, but he turned you into the Imps so… you think that’s fair, but more tipped to your side if you need to ask favours, which you do.

“There’s a weapon I, uh, I have stashed away on another planet, though,” you say quietly. “I don’t know if we’re close by, where we are at all, but—“

“Where?”

“Kijimi. Cold, mountainous, and frankly, it sucks there. If you haven’t been there, you’re the lucky one.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s powerful. It used to belong to my grandma, that’s all I know,” you reply quietly. “I trained with it when I was young, stashed it away when I left.” You glance at the thing still sleeping away in a tiny box Mando’s made as comfortable as he can. “We don’t have to, but if we’re on the run now, maybe it’s a good detour.”

The Mandalorian doesn’t speak for a moment.

Then, he flips off the autopilot and resets coordinates to the Mid Rim territories.

3.

Kijimi is a cold fucking planet and you hate it here, which is precisely why you buried it here. You know that just the thought of this place would deter you from being tempted to come back again. 

Maker, can you stress enough how much you fucking detest this planet?

Landing in the spaceport, Mando pays for the parking as you make sure the kid’s fast asleep and flip a hood over your head. It’s too big for you—one of Mando’s eviscerated parkas from when he probably had to catch quarry subzero—and you make a mental list in your head. 

Get creds, get clothes, get a holster, find the stupid weapon and get out of here.

 _Should_ be simple.

The first three, in fact, are. You, with no apology to Mando—not that he needs one—tell him that his parka is disgusting and shrug on the new one, flipping the fur-lined hood up and tightening your scarf around your neck. You got new clothes, too, specifically designed for this shitty weather, and under the three layers, you’re nearly sweating. Pulling on a pair of gloves, the two of you head back out of the shop and you immediately feel warmer than before. Your cheeks are numb but otherwise, you’re great. 

The snowstorm makes it hard to see and you stick to Mando mostly, guiding him audibly as they grab munitions and new leather holsters, ones you attach around your thighs before grabbing one of those New Republic blasters. Reconfigurable, the A-180, and all the attachments. You slide that into your empty thigh holster before leaving shop with a pack full of Mando’s old coat stuffed into it, ammo, equipment for the trip, food, and the gun configurations.

You can almost hear Mando’s questions inside that head of his as you two make it back out onto the main street, descend down some steps into the Mid-Plane of the city.

“You can ask, you know,” you tell him, glancing up at your companion. “How I can spend so much money when I wasn’t exactly living in the lap of luxury when we first met.”

“It’s not my business.”

“It’s okay to be curious,” you snort. The creds you extracted from your account jingling in your pocket is definitely going to alert whoever runs the Runners now, but it’s not like they can touch it. You’re old blood. There’s some sort of code around that. “My dad used to run things here. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Mando is sarcastic.

“The whole life story can wait for the ship, when we’re all roasting marshmallows around a fire with the kid, singing songs and recounting ghost stories…” you trail off dryly, tilting your head to look at him but he stares ahead, keeping up with the pace as they head down an alleyway the leads to the base of a taller mountain. “You get rich real fast. Illegal or not, he was efficient.”

“I thought you were orphaned.”

“I never said that. Just that I’ve been on Arvala-7 for a while—Oh, this is the place.” You stop outside a building nearest the base and you stop, sighing. The door is shut, the neon sign reading CLOSED in bright letters. Trying to mentally prepare yourself, you put a hand out to stop Mando from going in. “Let me just say that this guy and I, we don’t always see eye to eye, and he’s a cantankerous old man.”

“Sounds like your type of company.”

Your eyebrows rise and you give him a mocking laugh, dropping your hand. “Funny. Anyways, he’s going to lead us through the mines to the outer path of the mountain, and from there, we’re on our own.” Mando looks at you and you give him a tiny nod before he walks in, you following close after.

Immediately, hot air meets your numb face and the bell above your head chimes just as the sound of footsteps echos far off on the other end of the building. “Oh, for Maker’s sake! Didn’t you see the sign? The mines are _closed—_ what the hell are you doing here?” Meeting pale green eyes, you force a smile onto your face and walk deeper into the building towards the charcoal grey Twi’lek.

“Hey, Bertei.”

“What do you want?” 

You give him a fake smile. “Why else would I be in this shit hole?”

“No. You can’t come here during the coldest week of the year and ask me to risk my life for your stick.”

“It’s not a stick,” you snap, reaching the countertop. Mando stands right behind you and you see Bertei’s gaze flicker from Mando to you before he lowers his chin, almost mocking you. Lips twisting into a snarl, you rest your forearm on the counter and lean over. “Look, it’s just halfway up _inside_ the mountain. We just need your help through the maze.”

“No.”

“Bantha _fuck,_ ” you curse under your breath, sweat beginning to gather under your neck in the heat of the miner’s lodge. “Look, Bertei, can you just… _please_ take me? You know, for old time’s sake?”

“You aren’t your father. I don’t owe you favours, and I only did this for you last time because I respected him.” Stung, you flinch back and you stare at the Twi’lek, eyebrows twitching together as you push off the counter and you feel Mando move but you hold up a hand. “Get lost, kid. You had the right idea leaving this planet.” A flicker of fury bites at your stomach and you turn to look at Mando who hasn’t removed his pinned gaze from Bertei. Getting an idea, you lock eyes with the old miner.

“You’re right. I’m not my father.” Swallowing the knot in your throat, you press your lips into a grimace, not letting his words sink into your skin. “How much?”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s how business works on Kijimi, right?” you say coldly. “I know that. How much to take us up through the mines?” For a moment, you think genuine shock overtakes Bertei’s face because he hesitates to come up with a price, but maybe it’s because he didn’t expect you to even consider it. 

“It’ll cost you,” he finally informs you, clearing his throat. His lekku make a gesture you understand as an emphasis. “It’s nearly night and it’s fucking cold. The mines are especially dangerous, now, with how fragile the structure within is.” 

“It’s always fucking cold here,” you tell him flatly. “Name your price.”

“Name your limit.”

Rolling your eyes, you cross your arms over your chest. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“You’re no ray of sunshine yourself, kid. Come on, pay up.” 

He names it.

 _Shit._ It’s not high, but it is higher than you expected and more than worthy of the dangerous trek up a volatile mountain, but you wish it didn’t cost you so much. You don’t wanna withdraw more creds from your account if you can help it.

You sigh heavily and shoot him a poisonous look before uncrossing your arms. Reaching into your parka, you’re about to pull out your pouch when a gloved hand reaches forward, slapping Calamari Flan onto the counter. The currency is a bit stiffer in the snow and the three of them stare at the blue-grey coins for a moment before you turn to look at Mando who stares at Bertei. You didn’t even know the guy had this kinda currency.

“Enough?” he asks. Even his mere presence is domineering despite the cold, howling winds rattling windows, the warm lamplights. You’re used to it honestly, the hollowness behind the way you know he’s looking at you but you don’t know precisely _how_ he’s looking at you. You can read it pretty well naturally, too, but Bertei…

Well, Bertei’s probably heard of _this_ Mandalorian, in full beskar with a big gun on his back, and the guy isn’t too much of a bastard that he’ll rat you guys out. Out of some kinda respect towards your father or out of fear. Either way, he’s gonna keep his mouth shut.

You hope.

In any case, intimidation works because your old acquaintance takes the Calamari Flan and grumbles about overzealous bodyguards. Whatever. You pretend you don’t hear it.

“How far up is it?” Mando asks after a while of trekking. They’re following Bertei’s light into a dank, dark cave and the instant he turns back, they’re on their own. You just hope it’s worth it.

“Not too far,” you call back over the howling winds. “Once we settle in for the night, wait for the winds to die down, we’ll be able to make it there along the outside of the mountain and back quickly in the morning.”

Bertei finally leads you to the mouth of another entrance point of the cave.

“You don’t come down in a few days, I assume you’ve frozen to death,” he says unpleasantly before disappearing into the darkness, the light of his torch swallowed by the darkness. Sighing, you tell Mando to get ready for the night, gathering some coal and dry wood together in order to start a fire.

“What an asshole,” you mutter as you get the fire going. “Part of the reason I hate this planet—the people.” Mando doesn’t say anything, merely moves some rocks up for an elevated pillow and you get dinner ready, peeling open some ration kits and balancing it over the fire. There’s a bit of soup, a meat, and some vegetables, enough to keep someone full and energized.

Adding a bit of water, you watch as the grey meat comes to life, sizzling a nice warm brown. “Do you want to eat first? I’ll keep myself busy,” you say, glancing at Mando as he lays out their sleeping bags near each other for maximum warmth.

“Go ahead. I’m not hungry,” he replies and you nod, using a utensil to stir the soup and make sure it doesn’t burn. Scoffing it down, you wash it down with water before pulling out Mando’s extra parka and pulling it over yourself as you slide into the sleeping bag. Making sure it’s covering you like you want it, you watch as Mando gets up.

Again, you sense questions stirring inside him and roll onto your side, watching as he pulls the other ration kit from your pack and opens the seal. His is stew and some sort of noodles, a vac-sealed bread. Meat’s probably in the stew. Removing the bread, he sets the stew over the fire and adds water, stirring it to life.

Watching the fire flicker, you reach with a tired hand to poke half-heartedly at the logs.

“When I said pack light, I never thought I’d be making a fire again. At least there aren’t any creatures we have to watch out for. I don’t think we need to take watch,” you muse quietly as Mando keeps stirring and adding more water. “You want to say something?”

“No.”

“Yes, you do. I can feel it.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“Look, Mando, I’m inviting you to ask. We’re on my homeworld so...” You roll onto your back, pull his parka up to your chin. “It makes sense.”

“He mentioned your father.”

“Yeah. I was born here. I was a little asshole, so it’s probably why he still doesn’t like me.” You tug your own parka tightly closed over your chest as he adds water to the compressed bread and it unfurls, growing into a small bun which he begins to toast over the fire. “My mother smuggled me off the planet. She said something about how the rival gangs wanted to groom me as his successor but they didn’t want that life for me. My parents wanted me to be happy, and let’s say growing up int the snow makes you hate it.” You adjust your head against the padded rock, sighing. You still remember that day—the flashes of red, the blood on the snow, the old man’s face, looming like a shadow. “I haven’t seen them since. My dad died. No idea about my mom.”

“How old were you?”

“Six, seven. The lines get blurry now,” you confess quietly. You roll onto your shoulder. Staring into the fire, you feel it begin to consume you. “She left me on Naboo, where there would’ve been a greater chance for me to get adopted, you know? Where I could have a nice life. I was dressed in my nicest clothes with enough pocket change to last me months if I was smart.” You still remember that planet—gorgeous in its own right. Greener than you’d ever known. Looking up at Mando, you find him already looking back at you and you smile dully. “I wasn’t smarter than the criminals there, but I got by when I learned. Ditched the clothes, stashed the money. Hey, watch the soup—it’s going to burn.”

His helmet snaps to the flames and he jostles the little tin container, stirring it so it doesn’t. You roll onto your back and stare up at the dark crystalline stalactites.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?” You shrug. “My parents didn’t want me to lead a difficult life, so they gave me a difficult life. It’s… It’s hard,” you admit. “I hate them sometimes, but I have the kid now.” You tilt your head to the fire to look at your new companion. “I think I get it.”

He pauses for a moment, and your eyes flicker to his hands, the way his grip on the utensil seems to tighten for a moment, and you close your eyes, rolling away from him.

Biting your cheek, you ignore the smell of delicious stew wafting through the air. “I’m going to go sleep now. You eat.”

Not another word is said that night. You don’t even recall falling asleep until you’re startled awake by a figure sliding down next to you and your eyes open blearily to the moon’s bright rays glaring down upon you, reflecting off the figure’s armour. Mando gets into his sleeping bag as quietly as he can and you close your eyes, pretending he didn’t wake you up.

As you face your back to him, pressed against his own for warmth out of the minimal space, you feel your heart flutter at the heat emanating from the Mandalorian. Trying not to make a sound, you reach half-heartedly out of your cocoon to poke at the dying fire with a stick. 

You stir it back to life, the heat licking at your face before you shuffle back into your sleeping bag and fall asleep with Mando’s body against yours.

.

The rest of the trek is easy. The sun is bright, and the winds are milder than the night before. That morning, they get ready for the climb with breakfast, caf, and equipment. 

Harness, goggles against snow glare, gloves and parkas. Check.

As they pack camp, you triple-check to make sure you have everything. Going into your pack, you pull out one of the few things you brought with you from Arvala-7. Folded metal that flicks out with a simple movement of your wrist, you pull your crampons on, securing the strap around your ankle as the ice cleats attach and readjust themselves along the length of your boots.

Glancing at Mando, you’re about to ask if he needs anything when he finishes tying the knots and hooking the carabiners. You stand and extend a hand so you can hook yourself up by the belt but he merely finds the loop of your harness, clipping it on deftly and your gaze snaps up to his T-visor, staring where you think his eyes would be, and you don’t know if it’s true or not but his fingers seem to linger around your waist before he pulls back and you clear your throat, finding the other end of the steel-enforced rope. 

Reaching down, you clip him up by the utility belt, and brush off a bit of cave water from his shoulder before flashing him another tentative smile.

“Don’t fall on me. Not too confident if I can hold us up for long,” you tease quietly. He doesn’t reply and you step back, feeling like you’re intruding on a moment as you turn to hoist your pack onto your bag, strapping it across your chest and making sure they’ve collected everything. Mando stamps out the fire and you test the tensile strength of their rope before deciding it’s good enough and heading out into the snow. 

It’s inches high, enough to cover your boots and you suck in a breath as you begin the arduous trek through it, trying to carve a path that won’t be covered on the way down when they’re way more exhausted. 

“Can you imagine I did this without a partner last time?” you remark dryly over your shoulder as they climb up the spiralling pathway. Glancing over the edge, you see Kijimi in the day, all grey concrete, colourful red, green and blue lights, alive with winter celebrations. “I haven’t been here since I was a kid.”

“How didn’t you snap your neck?”

“As a kid, you’re fearless. I just happened to be a fearless idiot,” you tell him, the distance between them shortening as you slow down, approaching an ice wall. Grabbing the grappling gun from Mando, you squint down the sight and launch, letting the hook bite into the ice. When you’re sure it’s in the right place, you glance at Mando who stares at you impassively. “Ready? Don’t fall for me, and we’ll be good to go.”

He just stares at you and you roll your eyes.

“That was a joke, Mando.”

You dig your foot into the ice and grab the rope, hooking yourself on before beginning the climb.

.

Reaching the flat plane of the mountain, you hear the roar of the waterfall long before you pull yourself over the edge and you let out a relieved sigh, turning to make sure Mando makes it over, too before detaching yourself from the grappling line and making your way towards the white waterfall. It’s a crashing thing, too great to completely freeze, and you suck in a breath as the spray sends water flying in their direction. Staying near the few evergreens on the perimeter of the lake the waterfall spills into, you lead Mando towards the base of the torrent. 

“It’s behind it and it’s all ice,” you explain to him, struggling to make yourself heard over the deafening thunder of the cascade. “Be careful! The pathway is breaking apart!” 

Skirting behind the waterfall, you take a tentative step onto the crackling ice and you jerk your foot back, checking for cracks. Freezing cold water sprays onto your face and you feel a shiver completely overtake your body before you suck in a cold breath and continue. No cracks.

Putting your foot down again, you continue the slow walk forward, stepping over the obvious cracks to avoid sending them both into the hypothermic rapids. The entrance to the cave is just up ahead and you keep close to the rock wall. Heart thudding in your throat, you watch as the turn nears closer and closer. By the lack of tug on the rope at your waist, Mando seems to be doing okay, too.

Sharp, dropping water edges near your foot and you curse under your breath when you notice it’s cracked the ice in your way, covering the pathway in freezing cold, knife-like showers. They’ll have to either jump through or step through slowly and get blue in the face, and neither seems… seems _particularly_ great.

Turning back to Mando, you squint through the white spray.

“Jump or walk?” you shout. Pressing yourself against the wall, you let him lean around you to see what you mean before he skirts closer so you can hear him. You can’t even feel your fingers or toes at this point and either option sounds good if just to get out of this place.

Fuck Kijimi.

“Extend the rope and jump first. I’ll try to follow and walk through,” he says. “Tug three times on the rope when you’re through.”

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. Okay._

“It should be just straight forward,” you tell him. “Just stick to the wall.” You turn back to the cascade.

Edging as close as you can towards the broken, unstable pathway, you make sure your goggles are tight over your face before pulling your scarf up from your jacket and covering your nose and mouth. It won’t do much if you don’t make it, but for now, any protection against the water that will either crush or cut you is welcome.

Mando’s hand lands on your shoulder, alerting you that he’s in position and you run the line a bit before taking a deep breath. Making sure your carabiner is secure, you step over the line so you don’t trip. Your heart is crashing, blood roaring in your ears, and you don’t look into the waterfall, knowing that if you fuck this up, there’s no way you’re being saved. Not even Mando can pull you out.

The realization is quite haunting, and you swallow the hard knot in your throat, turning back to him again.

“If I don’t make it, you take the kid and take care of him, alright?” You try to smile behind your scarf even though you know he can’t see any of your face. 

Equals, for once, in some respect.

He looks at you and you grab his vambrace.

“You just cut me loose and go. Promise me!” He doesn’t answer at first and you tighten your grip. “Mando, promise me you won’t come after me. Promise me that you’ll leave!” A shudder convulses your throat and you snap your chattering jaw shut so you don’t spill any more shaky words.

Then, just barely over the deafening noise surrounding them both, you hear his quiet baritone: “I promise.”

Nodding, you turn back to the chasm and take a running step before launching yourself through the water. For a moment, you think you’ll make it. Arms over your head, legs outstretched, you almost float.

Then ice and water hails down upon you and you, on instinct, curl into a ball and drop like a rock in still water. Water seeps in everywhere and you gasp, sucking in the wet fabric of your scarf as fat rivulets slip down into your parka, in your hood, down your back and chest and stomach, paralyzing you everywhere. It seems an eternity where you are suspended in the current before you’re through, crashing onto hard icy rock by the shoulder. 

Your lungs are so cold you can’t even breathe as you try to open your eyes. Hot, blooming pain spreads through your side as you roll with a sick _squelch_ onto your front, knees dragging along the jagged floor. The urge to throw up prods at your stomach and you reach up with a soaked glove, yanking your scarf down over your mouth as you gag, entire body convulsing. Your forearms press into the floor, your bones shuddering inside your flesh as your gut begins to cramp and you cough, trying to push back the vomit.

Gasping for breath, you push yourself onto all fours, yanking your goggles off your head and pushing your hood down. Your entire body is completely drenched and you know you need to take off your exteriors, your outer layer of pants, your parka and jacket, but that’ll have to fucking wait. 

Giving yourself two seconds, you feel your heartbeat everywhere. Your head, your chest, your feet, but your fingers are spectacularly numb as you turn onto your ass and tug the rope three times. Scrambling to your feet, you stumble out of the way in case Mando crashes into you and wait for the silhouette of your beskar-plated companion. Fingers wrap around the rope and you step back on shaking knees, ignoring the way your breath mists like plumes of smoke before your face, the trembling of your hands. You’re pretty sure icicles are forming on your skin already but you can’t leave him behind.

He brought you here, after all. 

The rope still has tension which means he’s still alive, and you can’t even hear the waterfall anymore. You’re more attuned to the dripping water, the sound of his footsteps, faint as they are, and you wait, watching the beginnings of a shape begin to poke through the white mist. Flush against the rock wall, Mando slowly edges towards you and you’re about to walk over towards him to help him through when there’s a sharp _crack._

Your mouth opens to scream his name just as the pathway gives way under his foot and he plummets into the raging rapids. The rope immediately lurches you forward and you dig your feet into the rock, the jagged metal edges of your ice cleats screeching as they try to find a proper hold. A grunt tearing your throat, your back snaps forward as he pulls farther and farther away from you. Your harness digs into your flesh as you pull against it, your shoulders aching. The numbness in your fingers overpowering the feeling of the rope, your wet gloves twist and you curse as you try to keep him in within range. Your hands begin to cramp and you groan, yanking through burning arms. 

Eyes squeezing tight, you know that if he stays in there for even a second more, he’s dead, but if you let go with even one hand, the lack of contesting tension will probably send you in after him, if not propel you crashing into rock.

So, either he dies and you crash into water or rock, or they both die.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck—_

On its own accord, your hand lets go of the rope and extends out in front of you, a shot of pulsing heat surging down your arm and your splayed fingers bend as you search for him in the blinding rapids, the sinking body no doubt losing its fight. 

Shooting forward, you dig your ice cleats into the rock, the scraping of metal and rock screeching. A shout tears out of your throat as your arm begins to give in with the rope.

_Where are you, Mando?_

And then you pinpoint him, flailing still, fighting to stay awake, you feel his life force fading, you feel the panic, the fight

And you pull.

.

The fire burns as you sleep in the tucked-away alcove behind the waterfall. Here, it is tight enough that the glow illuminates the entire cave, and out of the way enough that wind brushes past them. 

In short, it gets extremely warm extremely fast, and you let out a groggy sigh when a dry hand touches your shoulder. You’re nearly naked, stripped to your first layer of thermals, and as you turn to stare up into the helmet of the Mandalorian, you groan and rub at your eyes. So you’re not dreaming.

“You’re dry,” you murmur first, sitting up. He’s crouched beside your sleeping bag, holding a tin of what you assume is soup. Taking it with shaking hands, you frown sleepily. “How long was I out?”

“Long enough for everything to dry.”

“Did you eat yet?”

“Yes.”

Nodding, you cup the tin in your palms for a moment before deciding to eat. Your entire body is strained, sore and strung up like you don’t remember the last time you slept. There’s a deep-set exhaustion in your neck, a tiny pulsing ache in your head, and as you eat, it’s like your body resets, restarts.

“Thank you,” you call hoarsely as he pulls your clothes off a wire he’s set up. He hesitates, though, when he hears your voice, and you sit up further. Despite it being so warm, you still shiver leaving your sleeping bag and your slurp on your soup to compensate. 

“I should be the one offering thanks,” he replies quietly, taking down your parka, jacket, and pants, setting them down at the edge of your sleeping bag. Staring at the pile, he seems to contemplate something and you cross your legs, watching him. “How did you pull me out?”

“I’m just… really strong,” you say lamely, the memories of how-long-ago-you-don’t-even-remember replaying in your head. “Besides, you’re the one who set this camp up.” Poking at the brown meat chunks with your spoon, you glance down into your tin. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“I was dying. You should have left me. It would have suited you, too.”

You know he makes valid points as he always does. 

Splitting a chunk in half, you sigh. “The thought to do that never occurred to me,” you tell him truthfully. “Not for a second.”

He stares at you for a moment as you chew on what you think now is some kind of beef, and you swallow. Your throat is still sore and it goes down with a sort of difficulty. The rest of the meal goes by silently as he walks around, packing up the camp, taking down the line he hung up the clothes on. You watch as he works, the dryness in his beskar and the leather.

He must’ve managed to stay awake after you pulled him out of the water.

It’s strange. You don’t even remember what happened after you fought off the cold in his system, kept his heart beating and pushed blood to his brain. You know you walked on autopilot, but your brain had pretty much shut down.

You must’ve blacked out, and he could’ve left you here, too. Just taken the weapon after a quick search and left.

You wonder if he can read your thoughts because he turns to you to catch you staring. Your eyes flitter back to your empty tin and you clear your throat, going to get dressed in your layers once again. Your gloves are still warm as you tug them on, and you stamp out the fire when you’re done. 

Your heart is racing in your chest for a whole different reason than the cold as you strap your holster onto your thigh, pull the harness back on and glance at Mando. He has the carabiners and rope in hand and he comes up behind you, hooking it on the harness hook that has slid its way behind your back. Swallowing, you pretend you don’t realize the deftness of his fingers means his fingers shouldn’t linger on your back before you turn around, adjusting the hook and sliding it so it’s on your side and they can walk side by side without too much difficulty or pulling.

“It’s a short walk,” you tell him quietly, the embers of the fire not enough to illuminate them and you stare into the T-visor close that’s close enough you can see your own eyes staring back. “Then we can get out of here.”

“Lead the way.”

Neither of them move for a moment, and then you turn away.

.

There is something left on that mountain in Kijimi, an unspoken agreement.

You don’t know what it is, but after that night, something changes.

As you hold onto the handle of the weapon, thumb tracing over a button that’s still cold to the touch, you board the _Razor Crest_ with Mando and let your pack drop to your feet. He immediately heads for the ladder and you close the door behind you, heading for his cot where you left the cutest green alien in the galaxy.

He’s still sleeping and you have to remind yourself you’ve only been gone for a day despite it feeling like it’s been years since you’ve come down that mountain. Holstering the weapon, you lean down and pick the kid up, brushing your fingers along his wrinkly forehead. Immediately, he wakes up and yawns, eyes opening curiously. His ears prick up and he reaches up to touch your nose but you’re too far away.

The _Crest_ begins its ascent as you close the sleeping pod.

“How’ve you been, kiddo?” you mutter, lifting him up above your head. “You have a better day than me?” He squeals and you smile, lowering him back down into arms reach. Nestling him in your arm, you boop his nose and sigh. “Probably. Let’s go see your dad, yeah?” Your smile grows as he seems to agree and you turn to climb up the ladder. The ship rumbles beneath your hands

The door swishes open upon your presence and you spot Mando already setting course to the Outer Rims. He turns his head at your entrance.

“Baby’s awake,” you tell him quietly as you sit down, and the kid coos while you settle him on your lap. “If you watch him for a while, I could tune up blasters and work on the weapon.”

“And it’ll work? Your weapon?”

“Yeah. Emergencies only. Parents said I couldn’t show anyone else who might use it against me,” you reply. Mando turns his seat and you hand him the kid. He wraps an arm around him immediately and you smile faintly. “Call if you need anything.”

“You, too.”

Turning, you don’t know if it’s the lingering chill of Kijimi being fended off by the warmth of the _Crest_ or if there’s another reason your chest feels like a fire burning in the middle of the night.

[INTERLUDE]

“She’s beautiful, you know,” you say. Din turns to see you at the mouth of the barn. You’re dressed in browns, lighter clothes than Kijimi, and the kid is situated against your waist, sucking on a rind of fruit one of the villagers must’ve given him. “And kind.” You’re wearing that beautiful smile you often do when you’re around the Child. One of the kids runs up to you and you glance down as they ask if they can play with him. The kid gaggles, jumping in your grasp and you give him to Winta, who runs off back to her friends with a new playmate, before you come in.

“And she’s perfectly your type,” you finish. He’s leaning over the window, and you lean in beside him, clasping your hands and looking at the village. They’re much happier now that the raiders are gone, brighter, more vibrant and loud with life.

You handled yourself well, too, but that’s no surprise. Din’s known since he met you that you’re not one to trifle with.

It’s strange how soft you can be around him—people _like_ him, allies, he means—compared to the razored edge you hone for yourself when you’re around those you deem a threat.

“I have a type?” he asks quietly, confused, and you huff a smile, cocking your head.

“I don’t know. But she really likes you, I can tell that much. And you like her. She knows how to fire a blaster,” you add conspiratorially, “so maybe that adds to it.” Din sighs, shifting his weight on his boots. Everything feels quieter now that you’re beside him and he remembers Kijimi, more than over a month ago now, waking up freezing cold, you slouched over him.

One minute, he was drowning. The next? Flying through the air like someone launched him out of a cannon. Your hand on his chest is the first thing he clearly remembers and waking up like water was splashed over him, he turned to see you, cold to the touch, freezing to death, too, but still, you had dragged him to his feet and carried him to the alcove before passing out.

He remembers catching you before you smashed your head on a rock in your fall, the questions and how you had avoided answering how in the Maker’s name you managed to pull him out of the water.

Though, maybe, some things are best kept secret, including his fear that you’d die, the way he had huddled you by the fire he had fed until it was almost too big to control in an attempt to keep you warm. You would’ve died to save him, he knows that. Just as he was _that_ close to unhooking himself from the line and killing himself to save you.

Again: secrets.

“You could be really happy here, Mando,” you breathe, the sun kissing your skin. Din turns his head just enough to see your face and you almost refuse to look at him, eyes fixed on the kids watching his, or yours, or… or _their kid?_

_Their_ sounds good. _Their_ sounds equal.

The village kids watch _their_ kid hunt a frog.

“You could settle down, farm krill. Fall in love with that widow and retire.” You say all these happy things for him, and he frowns at how distant you sound from your words. Like you’re not truly listening to whatever it is that’s going on inside of you.

“I know,” he simply says. 

“I could take the kid and go. You know, you don’t have to take this responsibility on,” you continue. “I’ll find a ship. Steal one, maybe, and I could be off-world in days. You’d never have to worry about it again.”

He knows that, too. He knows you could take responsibility, leave this world and maybe he’d never worry about them again. The past few weeks have been restful, lazy almost in how he only needs to patrol the boundaries that haven’t been disturbed since the battle, and watch over the kid even though you do that while he’s away anyways.

“Or you could stay,” he offers and you look at him, eyebrows knitting together, jaw tight. Already, he can read the denial in your face. “The kid could stay, too.”

“Mando—“

“He belongs here. He’s happy here, and so are you.” He straightens up. “I don’t think it snows here.”

And you laugh, quietly, incredulously, twisting the ring on your thumb nervously as you do when you’re thinking, and he looks down at it, inspecting the band as he did when he stepped on it on the _Crest_. It’s worn, but well cared for, with simple embellishments that mean nothing to him.

They must mean everything to you.

“I don’t think it does either,” you agree, eyes finding his so easily even behind the mask. Your face softens and your smile shrinks and Din wonders in times like these if you can see him through the helmet. “Are you staying?”

“I’ll make sure the kid is safe.”

“Then… then, I’ll think about it.”

“Hey, lovebirds!” A loud voice shouts and Din immediately steps back, lifting his gaze to see Cara at the entrance of their quarters just as you whip around. “Getting something to drink before I go out. Care to join me?”

“Spotchka?” you tease, heading towards the woman and Din sighs, following after them and towards Omera’s hut. “I don’t even know if I like it, yet. It has a taste.”

“You get used to it,” Cara dismisses. “And it depends on who brews it. Here, it’s much sweeter than other planets. Sometimes, it’s more bitter, or sour. Now, _that_ isn’t for me.” The sun is bright, reflecting off the ponds as they traverse the boardwalk back onto grass and dirt, and Din can see Omera inside through the golden light flooding through the open doors. You hop on ahead, heading inside, the jangle of your blaster and leather clinking as you strike up conversation with Omera. 

Dune snorts, shaking her head as she sits down on the porch seat, kicking her feet up. He leans on the other side of the doorway, and you come out a moment later with pack full of food that seems more like for travel than just for the kids. Watching, his eyebrows furrow when you head towards the cart, tossing it into the speeder. Folding his hands, he holds onto his wrist, restrains himself, and watches as you head back into their quarters for the rest of your crap.

Silently, he wonders what happened to ‘ _thinking about it’_ but he already knows the answer to that. 

You never intended to.

Your mind is made, no matter how much that seems to carve into his chest and leave him raw. It’s hollowing, he realizes, to see you so ready to leave something peaceful. Whether you’re leaving the kid with him or taking him, Din knows you’re not the type to laze around.

You want to spend your life doing something worthwhile, and while krill farming is worthwhile, you want something bigger. He realized that the day he met you, refused to let him take the kid without taking you, too.

You want to kill the Client, for some reason or another. He knows that, too. In the way you turn rigid at his name, the vengeful poison in your voice. He recognizes that.

And for half a moment, he entertains the thought of following you, helping you. He thinks he’d like that—the search, the adventure.

He doesn’t belong here, either, even if he _could_.

When Omera passes, handing Cara a mug of spotchka and joining the children, he hears his companion’s words, but doesn’t really listen until she’s getting up, setting down her empty cup and standing next to him. The final admission, that he’s leaving the kid here on this planet—it’s made everything so much more… real, for lack of a better term.

“Just because someone gets over a broken heart doesn’t mean it doesn’t kill them,” Cara says quietly. Din’s head inclines towards her, just enough for her to know he’s listening. “I don’t think you’re realizing what you’re giving up.” She gives him a nod before heading off for her border patrol and Din sighs, letting his head hang before he pushes off the wall. His hands drop and he descends down the hill. 

You’re pushing your pack up beside your munitions box, and at the sound of his footsteps, you turn around. You don’t seem fazed that he’s caught you, and in fact, you give him a grim smile as you throw the jacket you normally wear onto the speeder. Sweat is beading on your brow and you wipe at your face with the back of your hand.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you reply, climbing up on the speeder to double-check your pack. Your fingers nimbly untie the sack’s opening and you pull it open, rooting through and cataloging what’s inside by touch alone.

“Are we going to talk about you packing your bags?”

“Nope.”

“So, this is ‘thinking about it’?” he adds and you shoot him a look.

“Both of us know that I wasn’t actually going to think about it, Mando,” you reply softly, resting your weight on a knee as you tie your pack shut again. Setting your hands on the toughened leather, you sigh. “Come on. We both know that I can’t stay in a place like this, but you could.”

“What about the kid being happy here?” He steps closer to the speeder. You look down at him with a strange flicker in your gaze. Your eyebrows furrow, your lips pinch. He sees you swallow, and then you refuse to look at him again. “

“I thought about that, too. And I decided I’ll leave him with you.”

It’s a sentence so simply constructed, yet as you say it, Din’s insides peel, wilt like a summer flower facing autumn winds. You swallow again and look up, meeting his gaze painfully. You can’t bare to part with the kid, yet here you are, offering the chance for Din to raise an actual family.

It signifies more than either of them say.

“I trust you, Mando. I… I do. I trust you more than anyone else I have ever met. That means more than… than anything else I could ever say. I want to be there for him, but if I know he’s safe with you, I know I can leave.”

“Or, you could _stay_ ,” he replies quietly, voice straining and you shake your head, turning to slide off the speeder. He faces you as you walk up to him and you tentatively touch his shoulders, your fingers splayed over the beskar. Eyes fluttering shut, you try to gather your thoughts but Din can’t think of anything except the weight of your hands on him, the way he wants to hold you there until he can convince you somehow that that’s the very same reason he wants to leave. Because he knows the kid will be safe with you.

“There’s a lot of things I haven’t told you, and I wish I could.” Your voice is a fading sound, whispering, and tight with agony. Your eyes open. His hands twitch to your waist but he rolls them into fists, trying to keep himself still as possible as you pull your hands back. He can’t reach for you. He just _can’t—_ “Maybe some day. When they stop trying to find me, too.”

“They want the kid.”

“The Client knows I’m still alive. I… when they were torturing me, it was because they were trying to find something. They want something from me, Mando. I _can’t_ give it to them.” Then, your hands fall away. You crack your wrists, your knuckles, play with the ring on your thumb. “Until then, it’s better I don’t lead them to you or the kid. You make sure he’s safe with that big ole gun of yours, yeah?” Fingers reach up to touch the side of his helmet, not to lift it up, but simply tracing the curve of the beskar, the smooth craftsmanship, and he closes his eyes. “Thank you.”

He’s sure when he opens his eyes again, you’ll be gone. 

Even if you’re still here, you are lost to him.

“The kid will hate it.”

Your hand stalls, and he thinks he can hear your smile when you speak next, rich with sorrow.

“I know. I don’t want to say goodbye just yet.”

For some reason, that is what tears him. The words sink their claws far more deeply than if you had gone and left then and there.

.

Din sees you throw yourself over the kid, making sure the other village kids are behind you before you whip out your A-180 before he starts sprinting into the forest.

He hears your rapid footsteps not far behind as they head in the direction of where the shot was fired. Dashing into the forest, they come upon the smoking body of a Kubaz male. Skidding to a stop, he glances at Cara who holsters her blaster. There’s the tell-tale beeping of what he already knows is a tracking fob and as Din nudges the body over, a bottomless emptiness surges through his stomach at the sight of two tracking fobs, one blinking faster than the other. 

You crouch down by his feet, picking up the one that starts screeching at your touch and he can see the way your shoulders pull back, the tight grip you have on the fob. He crouches down beside you, picking up the other fob, and he can sense Cara’s confusion.

“Who’s he tracking?”

You jolt up to your feet, dropping the fob and smashing your boot down upon the device, twisting the ball into the wires to make sure it’s completely destroyed before you look at the ex-shock trooper coldly.

“The kid and I,” you reply just as Din does the same. “Fuck.”

“They know you’re here,” she says gravely as he looks out to the edge of the forest, where the kids have gone into hiding and you holster your A-180, nudging the Kubaz with your foot as if to make sure he’s dead. 

Din answers: “Yes.”

“Then they’ll keep coming.”

“Yes.”

“Then, we have a plan for that.” You announce as you start heading back out. Din and Cara look at each other before following and Cara speaks up first.

“What’s the _plan_?”

“I take the kid and go. Mando stays here, lives his happy life. They’re looking for us, not him.”

“That’s grouping two quarries into one,” he argues but you ignore him, descending down the hill with particularly picked steps so you don’t slip. He slips his blaster pistol back into his own holster, catching up to you. “You won’t be safe.”

“I’m not safe anywhere, Mando.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

“Yes.” 

“No! You’re staying here. I’m taking the kid and fucking skipping town.” You’ve decided, stubborn woman you are, and Din can’t help the frustrated admiration for you deciding their course of action that’ll give him a peaceful life.

But he told Omera. He doesn’t belong here where border patrols are all that there is. No matter how beautiful the widows here are.

He can’t cause more trouble for people who don’t deserve it. 

And you… you run head-first into trouble. He _wants_ to be there when you do.

Fuck. He wants to be with you.

Reaching the outskirts of town, they bypass the speeder packed with your stuff and he grabs your elbow, keeping you back. Cara eyes them both before excusing herself to tell the villagers that everything’s okay and you shoot him a glare, eyes like vibrodaggers.

You open your mouth, presumably to argue, but he cuts you off before you can.

“I told Omera I’m not staying.” The words come out rushed. “I was going to leave the kid here so he could have a childhood.”

The vexation melts a bit from your face. Your eyebrows shoot up. “ _What_?”

“That was before I knew they were still hunting him.”

“But you could be happy here, Mando,” you protest, pulling your arm out of his grip. He hadn’t even realized he was still holding onto you and he looks down as you continue, “I don’t want you to give that up. I can take him and you’d never worry again.”

 _I know that, but don’t you understand?_ He wants to take your face, say it slowly so you understand. _I won’t leave you. I care about you. I trust you, too._

But he doesn’t. 

He can’t.

“The Child is my responsibility,” he says instead, quietly. “This is the Way.”

And you stare at him, eyes widened in a face he knows is more beautiful than he can comprehend if he could take the beskar off. 

You hang your head.

“I don’t want you to give this chance up,” you whisper. “You deserve to be happy.”

He feels a faint smile pulling at his mouth, heart rending at the utter guilt flooding your face. This time, he does not stop himself when his hand reach up, a knuckle running down your cheek before he lets it drop again and his heart is thudding in his fingers at the softness of your skin.

“I’ve chosen this.” His voice is nothing but a filtered rasp and you swallow visibly, turning to look out at the villagers beginning to come out of their huts again. Your index finger scratches at your thumb, turning the ring as you think.

Then you turn back to look up at him and tell him plainly, trying to fight your shaking voice, “Fuck you.”

He smiles underneath his helmet. 

“You just have to be so goddamn stubborn and noble, huh,” you add weakly, and it’s a moment before you move towards him like you’re going to hug him and he tenses on reflex before you stop yourself and they’re locked in a strange limbo where neither of them move away from one another, even though they have to.

It takes a few seconds. Alarmingly, Din realizes he doesn’t quite want to move away and you fold your arms over your chest, trying to hide the flustered panic in your eyes just as he clears his throat and you shake your head.

“I’ll—I’ll, uh, help you pack your things,” you tell him in a tone that suggests it’s more of an order and he breathes in deeply. The limbo shatters and you turn to the speeder, making room for where his things are gonna go before you turn back to him. “And Mando?”

He glances at you, blinking. Not for the first time, he’s thanking the helmet for hiding the fact that he nearly embarrassed the hell out of himself.

“Thank you. For staying with me.”

As he walks away, he swears he’s going to carve his heart out if it keeps feeling like it’s going to burst out of his throat.

5\. 

“Oh, fucking no,” you groan when you realize it after the contact with Mos Eisley. Picking up the kid who’s still laughing from the near-death scenario that happened moments before, you lean over Mando’s shoulder. Hangar 3-5 and everything.

_Shit._

“Problem?” he asks and you grimace.

“Uh, no. Just history.” 

The kid yawns and you stroke one of his ears, knowing it’s a sure way to lull him into a deeper sleep just as they land and Mando gets up, heading down the ladder to open the door. Biting your lip, you try to linger for as long as possible before you have to confront Peli.

Last time you were on Tatooine, you may have…

You may have stole some of her money and a ship she was working on before escaping.

Heading down the ladder once you hear Mando hand over credits, you spot him coming back onto the _Crest_ and you meet him with half a smile.

“Work?”

“I’ll find it. You stay with the kid.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” The Child’s already fast asleep against your shoulder and you glance around Mando to see Peli and her three droids. “You find something, you let me know.” Mando nods, heading down the ramp and out into the streets and you step out after him, knowing the minute Peli sees you, she’s gonna throw a fit.

And a fit she throws, indeed.

“What do you think you’re doing back here, you nerfherder?” she screeches and you flinch, instinctively covering the kid’s ears but it’s too late because the kid wakes up, mouth opening in the beginnings of a cry. Mando pauses at the door, looking at you both, and you wave him off. Shushing the kid quietly, you pat his back as you turn to glare at Peli whose eyes widen upon seeing the kid. “Oh, do not tell me that’s yours.”

“Hello to you, too, Peli,” you hiss quietly, trying to keep your temper with a kid absolutely wailing in your ear. Hushing him, you let Peli come close with her gaggle of droids. “Mind keeping your voice down, though?”

“You and the Mandalorian make that? Always knew you were trouble—“

“ _No,_ Peli. He’s not my kid,” you tell her flatly. “Not in that way. I’m just his guardian and Mando’s my, uh…” You falter, searching for the right word. Kijimi, then Sorgan, those moments when it was just them at night, back to back, maybe but still, _together_ , make you stop. “He’s my partner. Not in _that_ way, but just, this is his ship.” At last, the kid stops crying and you let out a sigh of relief, gently juggling him in your arms. He twists around to look at his surroundings and Peli’s eyes widen at the big eyes set in such a tiny face. Ignoring that, you say: “Look, here’s the deal: I help you repair it, then I’ll get out of your hair.”

Her gaze snaps to yours. “You work for me? As if I’d trust you after the crap you pulled?”

“I was, like, sixteen,” you argue. “Look, you know I’m a hard worker. I fixed up that ship I stole without you knowing, right?” Peli scowls and you know you’re right. “He’ll get the money. Just… just let’s stay civil.”

“You’re awful grownup for being a thief,” she says at length after a scrutinizing glare, and you let out a breath of relief as she backs off. “And you’ve got a kid. Guess that helps some.”

“ _Thank you_. I’m heading back into the ship to put this one down for a bit, clean up the mess, but then we can get started.” 

She agrees to those terms, eyes lingering on the kid, and you head back up, opening Mando’s sleeping pod and putting the drowsy kid inside the little padded box they’ve got for him. Tucking him in, you give him a farewell run of your fingers over the curve of his ear before closing the pod and beginning to clean up the mess that is the cargo hold. 

The dogfight with Riot Mar had been sudden, spontaneous in the middle of you cleaning up the cargo hold and weapons locker, which meant guns spilling, some old armour sliding places, and you almost laughed at the shitty state his old Mandalorian armour is in. The cuirass has a big dent in it from the mudhorn what feels like eons ago and you know you can fix it with a few good hammers, but…

But, nothing.

Working on the fuel leak, you keep an ear out just in case the kid wakes up while Peli works on the carbon scoring, and you sigh, the smell overpowering anything else when Mando comes back. Turning around, you wipe at the sweat gathering on your brow, smearing oil across your forehead and Mando comes up to you immediately.

“It’s worse than I thought,” you offer in greeting, waving the smoke out of your face and meeting him half-way near the ramp. “You find work?”

“Yes.” Peli pokes her head out, approaching reproachfully as he climbs up the ramp to grab supplies. 

“You know, without droids, this is taking a lot longer than I thought it’d be,” she says to Mando as you climb up after him and you brush past him, getting his attention with a quick tap on his shoulder.

“Do you still need this?” you ask, gesturing to his discarded armour. “There’s a forge in town that I could use to repurpose everything.”

“Go ahead. Take the kid with you.”

“He’s sleeping. Peli can take care of him,” you reply, grabbing a rag out of your pocket and wiping at your hands. You walk with him off the _Crest_ , towards the sandy expanse.

“No.”

“Don’t worry. She isn’t the type to hurt him,” you promise as the door opens, revealing two speeder bikes and a human male leaning against one. He’s good looking, ankles crossed, a precocious smile on his lips, and you meet his gaze with disinterest before turning to Mando. “The kid’ll be fine.” He sets his supplies on the other speeder bike, looking at you and you raise your eyebrows as if to say, _Trust me._

“Fine.”

“Good hunting,” you wish, nodding to his companion who opens his mouth to speak.

“Toro—“

“Don’t care,” you dismiss, turning to head back inside. Peli’s working on the fuel leak in your absence and you get up to her, trying to paste on your most charming smile. She’s banging on her diagnostics machine, the old piece of junk rattling about as you lean on it. Even when you were sixteen, the machine wasn’t in its prime and you wrinkle your nose at the sand-crusted rusty spots where the paint job’s peeling.

“What do you want?” she snaps, tapping the buttons in an attempt to turn it on.

“If I asked you to watch over the kid while I headed to the forge, would you?” you ask, speaking in the metaphorical sense. Peli’s curly head turns towards you and you keep on that grin as her lips part incredulously. 

“You said you’d work your debt,” she says and your smile falters as you straighten up. “Where’s that work ethic now, nerfherder?”

“Well, maybe, if you stopped calling me a nerfherder, I’d be more inclined,” you retort. “It’s only for a day, maybe the next. I’ll come back at night and work, Peli. Come on.” You reach up and slam your fist into the machine. The thing whirs to life and Peli gives it a disgruntled look full of betrayal while you wipe at your forehead, trying to get as much oil gunk off your skin as possible. “It won’t be too bad. You won’t have to see my thieving face around.” 

She scowls. All very valid points. “You’ll have to pay me more.”

“Fine.” You still have credits left over from Kijimi that you and Mando had agreed upon was for extra purchases on your own part and emergencies. If his job falls through, you’ll pay but hopefully, whatever he’s doing is enough to cover the cost. “So, yes?”

“You’re lucky the little stinker is cute,” she warns. “If it was some ugly little thing, I wouldn’t think twice.”

“Aw, thanks. You weren’t so keen when you thought he was actually mine,” you say dryly and she sniffs, running a scan on the _Crest._

“If it comes from you, no doubt it’d be up to no good. Too smart to be.” Rolling your eyes, you head into the ship and gather Mando’s old armour in one of his bigger packs, zipping it up and hoisting it on your shoulder before checking in on the kid. He stares up at you with big brown eyes and you sigh, picking him up and descending down the ramp.

“Alright, kiddo. Here’s the deal,” you tell him. “I’m going to do some stuff while you stay with Peli. Don’t worry, she’s a friend.” The baby coos as you hand him over to Peli who runs a finger over his wrinkly brow. “You be good, okay? No shenanigans.”

“Rich coming from you.”

You shoot Peli a dirty look before hoisting the bag further up your shoulder and waving goodbye to the kid.

“I’ll come back,” you promise. 

The door opens and you walk out onto the street.

You lived here for a odd year, give or take a few months more than a decade ago. Strange to see that nothing’s changed too much. The Stormtrooper heads on bloody spikes is an addition, sure, and there isn’t a lot of business bustling anymore—hey, there’s even a droid running the cantina, now, but…

After Endor—shit, things are different now.

.

The night passes in the hangar _,_ Peli’s dinner filling you enough as you set the kid on your lap. Playing sabacc with the woman takes you back to when you were just a know-it-all teen who, for the first time in a long time, had a steady place where you could sleep, eat, work.

She wins when you let her, of course. You’ve learnt new tricks since you left Tatooine, but so has she. She makes a good opponent, seeing as the game is both chance, skill, and a good neutral face. You wonder, absently, as you watch the droids compete for third place, whether or not Mando’s good at the game. Unbeatable poker face, for sure, what with the Idiot’s Array always fucking up chances. 

He might make your equal. Seems he’s luckier than most people.

By daybreak, you’re out to the forge again, grinning when you bypass Peli asleep with the kid on her chest.

It’s hard work, smelting, measuring, and hammering his armour back into a shape that would fit yourself. The aliens and humans at the forge side-eye you but with enough credits, you manage to get them to turn a blind eye as you work on reshaping the durasteel cuirass.

Ever since the Purge, you’ve always wanted to try your hand at wearing beskar, but you don’t have the skills nor do you think you’re worthy of doing so. You’d probably fuck up the rare metal when it could go to some Mandalorian who needs it much more. Thank the Maker Mando was wearing some standard durasteel before he got what he’s wearing now.

By the time you’ve finished, you manage to outfit yourself pauldrons, a chest piece, and enough left over to cover one of your thighs. Strapping everything on, you make sure it’s a good fit, form-fitting and nothing hanging off the seams before you power down your forge and head out. 

It’s been a long while since you’ve worn armour, especially like this. Adjusting the padding poking out over your stomach, you step out into the afternoon sun. It’s blazing fucking hot and you suck in a dry breath, squinting as you wipe at your brow. 

Still cooler than in there. You know that much.

Heading back to 3-5, you play with the straps of your pauldron, knowing that you’re still exposed if people know where to shoot—or if they get lucky—and you smooth your hands over your shirt, fingers tickling both the blaster you took from Mando and the one you bought back on Kijimi.

Eyes are on you now.

As you walk the streets, you speed up to avoid inciting any kind of trouble you seem to attrack. 

Entering the hangar, you first note the silence.

Then, you hear the cries.

“Shut it up,” another voice hisses—one you don’t recognize. Pulling Mando’s blaster out, you skirt around the edges. The other door’s closed and you skirt towards it, pressing the locking mechanism to avoid any kind of escape as you thumb the safety. Whoever’s in here knows you’re here, too, having heard the door open and close.

First step is trying to find where he is.

Baby’s cries should lead you straight to that.

You hear the droids chattering as you approach the _Razor Crest_ only for a door to open and you whip around to see that tool that was with Mando earlier holding the kid, a blaster to Peli’s head as he forces her out of her office. Raising your blaster, you clench your jaw. Where the _fuck_ is Mando?

“Oh, great,” you snap sarcastically. “What the fuck is up with you?”

“Was starting to wonder if you deserted them,” he says. 

“Where’s Mando?”

“No clue. Probably trying to tame a dewback still.” 

The grip on your blaster tightens.

“Why don’t you be a good girl and throw these on?” he adds, tossing binders in your direction. They land at your feet but you don’t move your gaze away from the guy. Toro, you distantly remember. Thankfully, you never caught a last name. “We’re going to sit down and wait for the Mandalorian to come back.”

“Why would I do that?” You nudge the binders out of your way with your foot and step closer. Toro inches forward, pushing the blaster against Peli’s head and the woman grunts as you catch eyes with the kid. He’s awake. _Shit._

His ears prick and you cock your head, glancing at Toro again. 

“You really don’t want to test me,” you call, walking closer. He pushes Peli roughly and the mechanic stumbles forward. 

_Perfect._ The distance means more time between a plasma shot and her skull.

Staying a few metres away, you palm your blaster pistol, staring dead into his eyes.

“What’s stopping me from shooting her if you take another step closer?” Toro retorts and you roll your eyes before looking at Peli and making sure she’s okay. She dips her head slightly and you let your shoulders drop in relief, widening your stance into a steadier one. “Do _not_ move. I’ll shoot her!” Toro walks forward to close the distance between the muzzle and Peli’s head and you grit your teeth in frustration.

“Don’t do it, Toro.” Your foot shifts in the sand.

“Put the binders on.”

“Put the blaster down.”

“ _Put the binders on!”_

“You want me alive, so I know you’re not going to shoot me,” you say. “And how is it gonna help if you shoot the one leverage you have over me, huh?” You take another step closer. “I’ll come with you if you let her go.”

“Are you crazy?” Peli exclaims but you shoot her a look before shuffling forward. Your blaster is still trained between his eyes and he’s smart enough to position himself so Peli’s stuck between them. No clear shot.

“Let her go, Toro,” you repeat. “I’ll come quietly if you just let her go.”

“Put the binders on, then.”

“Let her go, _first.”_ His eyes widen when he realizes you’re not about to stop and he looks down at the kid.

You can see the cogs in his skull working. He’s got one of them already. If you’re offering yourself up, no doubt it’s easier than a shootout when you’re the one wearing armour.

Finally, he shoves Peli forward and you immediately spring into action, grabbing the woman and covering her with your body as you shove her towards the _Crest_ ’s ramp. A blaster shot goes off and you throw her forward just as you turn around, flinging a hand out on instinct. 

You crash to the ground and the air goes still.

You feel every molecule in his body as your fingers go rigid and you watch as everything staggers to a stop before you. Landing hard on your wrist when you try to break your fall, your extended hand begins to shake and a crashing sensation overtakes your head as you try to get up, staggering against the ramp of the starship. Peli peeks out of the cargo hold, eyes widening at Toro frozen in motion, the blaster shot fizzling mid-air. It burns as you walk forward, regaining your balance and his eyes follow as you pick up the discarded binders, holstering your own blaster pistol.

Keeping the man in stasis, you grab the kid who immediately squeals, burrowing himself into the folds of your armour. His tiny hands grasp onto the fabric of your sleeve while you grab Toro’s wrists, yank them around your back and kick him to his knees. His blaster goes skidding in the sand and you cuff him, sending his static blaster shot up into the sky with a sharp _ping._

Reaching around him, you grab the credit pouch jangling on his belt and check to make sure he’s been paid before pushing him into the dirt.

“What the hell was that?” he shouts, groaning. He wriggles onto his ass, scooting as far away from you as possible as Peli scampers back out towards you. Handing the kid off to her, you walk up to Toro with the beginnings of a snide smile and you crouch before him. He crashes against one of the crates in the hangar, hitting his head hard and his face screws up in pain as you push his feet out of the way. 

Shoving your face in his, you grab his face and squeeze his jaw painfully.

“What _are_ you?” he whispers and you snort.

“I’m a human, idiot. Now, why don’t you be a good boy and sit here while we wait for the Mandalorian to come back?” you ask, jutting your bottom lip in mocking sympathy. Roughly pushing his head away, you get up and turn back to Peli who’s watching you with wide eyes still. As you walk up to her, she clutches the child tighter towards her and you raise your eyebrows.

_Really?_

“What kind of voodoo magic was that?” she hisses conspiratorially and you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. “Since when do you freeze time?”

“I didn’t _freeze_ time. I just froze him and saved your life!” Your voice a furious whisper, you grab Peli’s arm and drag her into the _Crest,_ trying to prevent any eavesdroppers—Toro, to be exact. “Look, Peli, you know me. You know I wouldn’t hurt the kid.”

“That was until I saw that sorcery,” she protests. “Since when could you do all that stuff?”

“The whole time you’ve known me,” you admit. “I was born with it, okay? Shit, look, my parents told me I couldn’t tell anyone. That it’s dangerous and it was only for emergencies and that was a fucking emergency, okay?”

“So, what? You just bring up your magic powers when someone’s in danger?” she asks, calmer this time, and you shrug, playing with your ring.

“It’s an instinct, I guess. I refined it over the years when I was alone, and there was a time when I met someone exactly like me with the _voodoo magic_ , but here we are.” The kid reaches out for you and Peli surrenders him back towards you as you hoist him into your arms, bouncing him a bit. “I, uh, I didn’t mean to scare you, you know. I wouldn’t use it on you or on anyone unless it was absolutely critical so if you could keep it a secret, I’d be really grateful.”

Peli sighs, lips pressed into a firm line and she stares at you quizzically, eyebrows furrowing. You chew on your cheek, smiling sheepishly, but she merely swats at your head. You wince like a kid, shoulders hunching sheepishly.

“Always knew there was something off about you, but I guess you’ve done something right,” she finally grunts, descending down the ramp. You watch her go. The droids run up to her and she turns around. “The kid’s alright and you… you’ve paid back your debt.” She continues on her way to her office and you frown.

“I have?” You follow after her, the small bundle in your arms yawning. You look down at him for a moment before pinning a glare at Toro. “You’re sure about that? Not _anything_ else I can do?”

“Why don’t you wait until your friend comes back before you decide to make a mess of my hangar?” she shouts through her office windows and you sigh, sitting down on the ramp of the _Crest._ “Maybe something’ll peck out his eyes. Serves him right for trying to kill me.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” Toro asks, voice shaking as you draw your knees up and balance the kid in your lap. Eyes finding the bound man still huddled against the crates, you make sure he’s still cuffed before turning your attention to the kid who’s giggling and trying to grab your hand.

“First, you keep your mouth shut,” you say. “Second, like I told you, we wait until Mando comes back.”

.

When Mando comes back, you’re eating dinner, feeding the kid some of it, and Peli’s playing sabacc with her droids. The ship’s all fixed up, you’re all packed up, and for once, it feels peaceful.

In short, perfect tranquility, except the writhing bounty hunter shouting for help as soon as he comes in. 

Mando’s blaster is in his hands but as he scans the hangar, he slowly puts it back in its place by his side while you give him a smile.

“Hey.”

“What happened?” he asks, modulated voice pitched with confusion as he looks you up and down, no doubt noting the new armour. “Nice armour.”

“Thanks, and someone tried to kill Peli, but he failed so he’s over there. Not sure if we should kill him or not,” you add lightly, offering the kid some bantha milk. He takes the little porringer you have it stored in him in his hands and sips loudly as you glance at Mando again. “He left you alone in the desert. Now that’s insulting.”

“He was trying to find the kid and you, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

‘Then, he’s a threat.” You shrug, taking the kid and moving him so your body covers his view of Toro.

“Hey, wait, wait, wait—Mando, come on, I didn’t mean it. I—“ Toro’s protests are cut short as, without looking, Mando pins him in the heart with a blaster shot and moves to sit down beside you with a sigh. Peli looks up as you show him Toro’s pouch. Looking inside, he notes the amount, nods and takes it, getting up again and approaching the mechanic who barks at the droids to clean up the mess of a dead body. 

“Be careful with him,” she tells Mando, waggling a finger towards you and the baby. “And with her, too. Gets real nasty if you aren’t careful.” 

“I’m aware of that.”

Shaking your head, you pick up your plate of food and the kid, handing him over to Mando while you set the dishes down inside Peli’s office. Returning, you note that Mando’s paid her in full and over it for her troubles, using whatever the bounty was on his quarry.

Emergency money stays firmly in its pouch, then. Great.

“That cover us?” he asks and Peli looks down at the money literally spilling out of her hands.

“Yeah. Yeah, this is gonna cover you,” she says, looking from Mando to the kid, then to you. “Guess it’s nice to know you’re still kickin’, kid.”

“Thanks,” you tell her, returning to Mando’s side. “See you around.”

“I hope not.”

Turning, the three board the _Crest_ again and you close the door behind them. 

When you join Mando in the cockpit, his chair swivels to look at you and he inspects your armour again. You stand before him, let him do his thing before he faces his nav panel and you walk up behind him, resting an arm on the headpiece of his seat. They’ve already left Tatooine’s atmosphere. Great.

“You’ve made use of it,” he observes, voice tight, and you frown faintly. “I like it.”

 _He must be tired._ “Yeah?” 

He nods, flipping on auto-pilot and leaning back into his seat. Your fingers brush against beskar, tracing the top of one of the earpieces on his helmet and he doesn’t move away. Curiously, you run the pads of your fingers up over the side of his helmet, over the ridge in the middle of it and smile, leaning down and resting your chin on your forearm. “Thank you for dealing with Toro. I was… worried.”

“It’s no big deal,” you murmur, moving your hand away. Glancing at the stars, you smile in the silence. It’s so peaceful in this moment. The kid’s half-asleep in Mando’s grasp, leaning back into the pilot’s stomach and you reach down to stroke his ear. “Maker, so much trouble for a little one.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing he doesn’t keep us busy,” Mando says and you glance at him, blinking when you realize how close your face is to his helmet. Lips parting, you break out into a smile.

“Did you just make a joke?” you tease and he stares at you for a beat before shaking his head. “No, really, did you? Or am I hallucinating?”

A loud sigh.

“I must’ve been imagining things,” you say, heart pounding in your ears as your voice drops into a murmur. You don’t know if it’s because you’re so close to him or if the day is finally catching up to you, but your knees feel gummy and your stomach flutters. “Then again, I must be tired.”

“You can sleep.”

“But you were out in the desert all day,” you protest. _And you used the Force,_ another voice says. _You exerted yourself._

“You’ve watched over the kid enough,” he says and you sigh, truly feeling the fatigue setting deep into your bones.

“Thank you,” you murmur as he flicks the cabin lights off onto a dimmer setting. Glancing up, a deluge of warmth spreads across your chest at the gesture and you turn to Mando. He’s still focused on setting a nav-point to a planet you don’t recognize. You think it might be a space ship, but it’s something you’ll find out sooner or later. 

For now, you have to get to sleep, and your brain isn’t working to the best of its ability. Lack of comprehension, lack of cognitive processing. You don’t really know what you’re doing as you look at Mando for a moment, and then, inching closer, you swallow the nerves bundling in your throat and press your lips against warm beskar.

Your eyes flutter shut and for a moment, you’re not sure if you’ve transcended to a different plane of existence or if you’re just tired and you take yourself out but you linger there for a moment.

Then you pull back, whisper, “Goodnight, Mando,” and walk out of the cockpit with burning cheeks and a racing heart. 

Descending down the ladder, you bundle yourself up near the weapons shelf and lie down, trying to pretend like you don’t want to throw up your own lungs.

6.

“So, whoever this guy is, he’s an old friend,” you say once he’s explained his transmission.

“Associate,” he corrects. “I ran jobs with him back in the day.”

“Back in the day,” you echo with an amused snort. “You’re not that old, are you?”

“No.”

“And you think this guy is trust worthy?”

“No. I think it’s a bad idea, but he had a job when I reached out to him. No questions asked policy.”

“Huh.” You adjust the pauldron on your shoulder and he glances at you with a tilt of his head. You rest an arm on the shoulder of his chair, hand hanging over his own pauldron as they come out of hyperspace. “And it’s good pay?”

“Yes. 

“Okay, so what do you need me to do?” In the distance, you can spot a grey shape you can only assume is a space station. As Mando brings them in, you glance at him. “I’m getting weird energy from this place.”

“Watch the kid. They’re criminals. They make their life off of doing jobs like these. Not like mercenaries—these guys are druglords, serial murderers, thieves, shitty people. They won’t think twice about trying to cash you or the kid in if they found out.” 

“Lovely,” you say sarcastically. You’re glad he hasn’t brought up the, uh, _kiss_ , that happened a few days ago, the both of you skirting around the topic with a five-foot pole and you’ve stayed in the cargo hold with the kid, practicing with the weapon mostly just to brush up on your skills. Mando still hasn’t seen it—you know, emergencies—and you hope there won’t be a time when there needs to be.

As Mando brings them in close, you pick up the kid from the box in the co-pilot’s seat. Heading down the ladder, you head into the cargo hold and you open the sleeping pod, putting him inside. As they dock, you holster your pistols, clipping the weapon on your belt just as Mando comes down and you look to him.

“Do you want me to come with you?” you offer and he pauses as he presses the button to lower the door. 

Then, he steps towards the opening door. “If you want.”

“Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to,” you tell him, closing the sleeping pod and descending down the ramp with him. You feel more confident now that you’re armoured, and as the ramp meets the floor, your eyes widen the at the expanse of this hangar. It’s huge here, with different people working their asses off. You can tell it’s some sort of organized crime unit based on how everyone’s doing their own due diligence, but there’s one man in particular that catches your attention. Human, big beard, big smile.

Getting off the _Crest,_ you tug Mando in his direction as a bunch of the others look at them both. One of the workers even takes off his mask to make sure it’s a real Mandalorian and you hide your smile behind an impassive facade.

The man calls him. “Mando. Is that you under that bucket?” He extends a hand, one Mando takes with a greeting,.

“Ran.” They shake heartily before the old guy’s attention turns on you and you take his proffered hand as well. Introductions are made quickly before they continue on through the base, over a catwalk. A lot of them don’t look twice at you, look thrice at your companion and you keep your hand near your blaster. 

As you approach a bald man working on something near one of the craft tables, you feel Mando’s gloved fingers tug at your own, pulling your hand away from your blaster and you look at him.

He doesn’t look back right on, but maybe it’s all in the peripheral because his fingers linger, just to make sure his message is received.

_We don’t shoot first._

Or, maybe, it’s because…

No. Stop. It.

“Yeah, we were all young, tryin’ to make a name for ourselves,” Ran laughs. “Yeah, but runnin’ with a Mandalorian, that was…” He points at Mando. “That brought us some reputation.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mayfeld doesn’t sound impressed and he looks over at Mando, eyes squinting. “What did he get out of it?”

“I asked him that one time. You remember what you said, Mando?” Silence. “ _Target_ _practice.”_ The two men laugh and your eyes widen imperceptibly, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. It’s such a callous response, cold, that you don’t attribute it to the man you know. Mando treating life like mere targets? The same man who… who saved the kid? Came back for you?

Not the same man.

You almost open your mouth to say so and your body moves but Mando grabs your wrist, stalling you. His warm grip makes your heart leap to your throat and you look at him out of the corner of your eyes as you discreetly pull your hand away.

“Target practice,” Ran repeats, laughing his ass off, unknowing of what just happened. Your hand tightens into a fist, one Mando can feel against the back of his glove and you set your jaw as the old man looks at them. “Man, we did some crazy stuff, didn’t we?”

Strained, but with no hesitation: “That was a long time ago.”

The smile falls of Ran’s face and Mando’s hand shifts against yours, flexing and relaxing from its own tight fist. His pinkie twitches, a silent tell that it’s okay but you are still stiff as Ran sighs, explaining that Mayfeld’s running point on the op.

“Who’s the bird?” asks the ex-Imp. “Thought we only needed five.”

“She’s with me,” Mando replies flatly and you meet eyes with the leader, unimpressed.

“I didn’t think Mandalorians burrowed with anyone outside of their own kind,” Mayfeld derides, gesturing for them to follow. Again, Mando’s pinkie dragging across the length of the back of your hand.

_Stand down._

You tilt your head, eyes flickering to him as they walk back towards the _Crest._

 _Maybe if they weren’t such assholes,_ you reply silently.

And Burg’s a wonder. Zero’s well, a droid, so you can’t say much about that since Mando hates droids. He hasn’t made a comment about you yet, so that’s nice.

It’s the last person out of the already-formed crew of four that sets you on edge.

Xi’an.

Turning around, you feel a slimy feeling coat your insides as the lavender Twi’lek approaches. She’s dressed in leather armour, a vibroblade flipping deftly between her fingers, and she radiates a raw predatory energy that reminds you of a starving rancor seeing a juicy piece of meat for the first time in days when she looks at the Mandalorian beside you.

“Hello, Mando.”

And maybe it’s not just the shit-your-pants-scaring energy she has, but in the breathless, stunned way Mando says her name: “Xi’an.”

She walks towards them and you back up when she circles, the vibroblade still flipping, twirling like second nature. “Tell me why I shouldn’t cut you down where you stand?” she asks softly before lunging forward, the knife flashing in the air and your hand shoots to your weapon as Mando’s hand finds your stomach and pushes you behind him on instinct. Stumbling back, you look at him, eyebrows knitting together as your lips pull into a frown and Xi’an gives him a wide, ecstatic grin.

“Nice to see you, too,” he says, and you’re pretty fucking sure he at least sort of means it. Letting out a tittering laugh, Xi’an sighs and lowers her knife. Mando drops his hand from your stomach.

“I missed you,” she whispers and you glance awkwardly at Mayfeld who meets your gaze with the same uncomfortable glint in his eyes as you step out from behind your companion. She’s so fucking close to him. “This is shiny.” Xi’an taps his beskar cuirass, smiling up at the Mandalorian and you have to resist the urge to deck a bitch as she clicks her tongue. “You wear it well.” Her face hovers so close to his mask that words you want to spit at her bang at the roof of your mouth.

You turn away so you don’t act on that urge. Mando won’t appreciate it at all.

“Do we need to leave the room or something?”

_Thank the Maker for Mayfeld._

Mando turns around to face the rest of them and you cross your arms, moving and leaning against a stack of crates on the other side of Ran. His helmet tilts slightly towards you but you refuse to look at him, the rock lodged in your throat making it hard for you to do anything but simmer right now. You know he’s wondering why you aren’t standing next to him.

You shouldn’t even be mad. Mando had a whole life before he met you, _clearly_ , but why does even the _idea_ of Xi’an knowing him piss you off so fucking much?

Probably because she’s fucking crazy, but you digress.

Ran mentions about how heartbroken Xi’an was when Mando left the group.

Boo fucking hoo for her.

“Oh, I’m all business now,” she says, pointing a vibroblade at Mando. “Learnt from the best. But I’ve no idea what she’s doing here.” Xi’an’s gaze finds yours and you meet it in a challenge, not moving an inch from where you are. Crossing your arms, you wait until she moves on, but she doesn’t. 

“She’s with me,” Mando finally says in a tone that leaves no room for questions and the two women both look at him, Xi’an in muted surprise, you in barely restrained anger. You’re not even fucking mad _at him._ What is _wrong_ with you? 

“Pretty lady, Mando,” the Twi’lek sings, although her voice is dripping with sharpness as she smiles at you. Your gut convulses. “Too pretty for that mug under your mask.”

The rest of the crew gets on the _Crest_ after the mission briefing while you and Mando stay behind and you stare at the Twi’lek as she gets onboard before looking at your _buddy._

 _Did she actually see you without your mask on?_ You wonder warily. You don’t think so. You believe he’s honoured the Way, that he hasn’t compromised it, but still, doubt sets in at Xi’an’s words.

 _What the fuck,_ you think glumly. It’s like a fist has grabbed your guts and twisted you up, and _Maker,_ you hate it. 

“Can you give us a minute?” you say to Ran who nods, spouting some shit like how it’s the good old days before heading off to who the fuck knows where. When they’re finally alone, you sigh. “Wanna explain that?” you ask, trying to sound as light as possible and he looks at you.

“Explain what?”

“You dated _her_?” You know what, fuck it. You’re being judgemental because based on what just happened, you’re pretty sure that Twi’lek would murder you in your sleep if she had the chance. “Maybe I was wrong about you having a type.” Letting your arms drop, you’re about to walk away but he moves first, making you pause with a hand to the elbow.

“We have to infiltrate a New Republic transport. A droid is piloting my ship. That’s what you want to ask?” Sarcasm. He does that when he’s on his short fucking fuse. Fucking great.

“Yeah,” you tell him frankly. “It is.”

He regards you and you don’t budge from your spot. It’s clearly not a fight to pick out in the open, which is why you’ve got him cornered here so he can’t wiggle his way out by saying he has to do some maintenance or tune up his blaster, 

You don’t know why, you _know_ it’s petty, but you want answers. 

“I didn’t _date_ her,” he corrects quietly. “There was something, and then there wasn’t.”

“Which might as well be dating, considering,” you snort, turning to go but he grabs your elbow, silently asking you to explain. Fucking flutters in your stomach whenever he touches you. Such bullshit. “Look, I don’t care. It just… surprised me. That’s all.”

“I didn’t know she would be here.”

“Well, fucking sucks for all of us, then. You have to work with your ex, I have to deal with the whole crew.” You paste on a smile and shrug. “All for the pay, right?”

“She’s _not_ my ex.”

“Okay, then what _was_ she, exactly?”

A beat. “Why are you being like this?” He wants to know. You consider your choices: the truth, or to lie. Neither is objectively attractive, but to you—fuck, what even is the truth anyway? “We do this job, and then we don’t have to see them again, okay?”

“Fine.” You turn around and start to head for the ship, and you know Mando sighs because it’s a second later before he starts walking after you.

.

You busy yourself cleaning up the ship after that shaky exit out of hyperspace and approach to the transport, putting shit back in their right place while you keep an ear out for the droid. Burg had tossed a few of their supplies for no fucking reason so you’ve had to tidy that up, make sure everything’s in tact while you watch the hatch.

To say you don’t trust anyone on this ship except Mando and the kid is an understatement. You wouldn’t even blink around someone like Xi’an.

Not that you’re jealous.

Giving the ring to the kid, you watch him play with it for a bit, wondering how the job is going. You can’t really hear the droid from the cargo hold and you’re half tempted to go up there and ask how it’s going as you set your blaster down. You’ve tuned it three times already, fucking it up and fixing it just to give yourself something to do.

 _Well, it’s not like it’ll hurt to ask considering we might get destroyed by New Republic forces,_ you rationalize in your head. If anything, it might ease your worry. You don’t like how Mayfeld and Xi’an were whispering to each other while Din opened the hatch, nor Burg’s haughty demeanour.

Everything about this is rubbing you the wrong way.

You had caught the droid reporting the distress signal. It’s been… 

Twelve minutes since then.

“Stay here, okay?” you whisper to the kid who’s biting down on your ring. You give him a fond smile, petting his head before getting up, closing the sleeping pod behind you.

Climbing the ladder as quietly as you can, you suck in a breath.

You crawl forward until the upper half of your body is fully out of the hole. The droid’s voice is faint as you hear him speak and you clench your teeth, straining to come close enough without triggering the motion sensor for the door.

“Zero to Mayfeld. Zero to Mayfeld. You have a potential problem. He has escaped.”

_He?_

You know instantly who they’re talking about. 

Who else but Mando? 

Tearing yourself away, you head back down in the cargo hold and open the sleeping pod to make sure the kid’s still in there before searching for something to do. Grabbing the weapon, you clip it to your utility belt and set to cleaning the E-11 you stole off Nevarro way back when in a fast attempt to look normal.

Ears pricked, eyes fixed on the ladder warily, you try to look like you’re _only_ disassembling the rifle, and you think you do. You do it like second nature, the parts clicking when they accidentally collide.

 _Fuck._ But your heart is racing.

Sitting on the edge of the pod, you put the kid in your lap, keeping him against the curve of your calf as you spread out the parts and start cleaning. If you don’t kill that droid at the right time, the rest of the crew in the transport will definitely know what’s happened when they try to radio in. It’ll probably make them turn back and kill Mando, if they haven’t already. 

Flipping the firing mode switch, you make sure it triggers smoothly.

You run the rag over the part, trying to stop the frustration that bottles up inside you. 

Frustration and… fear, mostly. It pushes your guts up into your lungs, makes it hard to breathe, and you press your lips into a grimace as you stare at the hatch.

_Come on, Mando. Let’s just get out of here…_

The baby coos and you look down at the little bundle in your lap. Smiling faintly, you set down the rag and blaster part, pulling the ring out of his mouth and wiping it down with a scrunch of your nose.

“Don’t swallow it. You’ll choke,” you warn him for the millionth time and giving it back so he can run his hands over the embellishments that he seems to enjoy so much. You reassemble the E-11, making sure everything clicks into place.

You take the kid off your lap and put him to the side, hoping he’s distracted for the moment. Getting up, you leave the sleeping pod, opening the weapons locker and make sure everything is securely in place. You slap the parts, make sure they’re all clicked in, wiping at your face and setting the weapon back on the rack. You step back, closing the locker and turn to the sleeping pod.

For a moment, you can’t even breathe when you see the cot is empty and you whirl around, trying to catch sight of big green ears. 

“Kid!” you hiss, keeping your voice low so the droid doesn’t hear you. “Kid, now’s not the time to play!” _Shit._ No response. Immediately heading for the nearest crevice a creature his size could hide, you peer around, nudging around with a hand in case he’s curled himself up. “Kid?” Spinning back to face the other wall, you head to the next stack of crates, debating between ripping your hair out and ripping the ears off that kid.

Those assholes betrayed Mando. They’re gonna find out about the bounty on you and the kid sooner rather than later, and for _fuck’s sake,_ where the _fuck_ is the kid? 

Hauling a supply crate containing munitions off so you can see clearer in the light, you grunt when it clacks against your cuirass and drop it at your feet. 

Nothing but dust.

That fucking womp rat.

Then, you hear the door to the cockpit open and you whip to face the ladder, speeding over to the ladder and pushing yourself high enough you can see the kid wobbling back towards you. Pushing yourself up an extra step, you grab the kid and tuck him into one of your arms before you land back down in the cargo hold as quietly as you can. Your eyes scan the area before knowing there’s no safer place than the sleeping pod and you put the kid in, taking a moment to mentally hold back a sigh at him trying to give you back your slobber-covered ring, and you jab the button on the controls before scurrying behind the tallest stacks of crates.

You hear the droid before you see it.

As he searches for the kid, you hide yourself deeper against the shadow of the crate as your hand slowly moves to the weapon still at your belt and you curse silently for having left your blaster in the sleeping pod.

Hopefully the kid doesn’t manage to pick up the thing and shoot it.

Your thumb traces the button, your other fingers wrapping around the ribbed metal as you take a deep breath in an attempt to calm your thudding heart. The droid only has to move a bit closer before you can efficiently cut its head off without a plasma bolt finding your heart.

No problem.

You’re older now—this weapon should fit you well. Better than it did when you were just a child.

It even feels more natural in your palm, like it balances perfectly between efficient weight to put force behind a strike and a lightness that enables you to act quickly. You can still remember the buzzing, the warm energy that fizzled you, thrilled you, the light that used to burn into your eyelids even when you were asleep.

You had never wanted to put this down—it is now that you wonder how you ever stowed this away in the first place.

The droid turns its back on your for a moment and the button clicks.

It’s a flash of green before a head goes rolling and you kick the droid’s head away from its body before it could pull some sneaky shit and the wires spark at your feet as you press the button again and the weapon shuts off.

You step over the droid’s body, opening the sleeping pod to see the kid still in there. Clipping the weapon back onto your belt, you stare down at him and sigh incredulously as he raises a hand and waves.

“You’re trouble,” you tell him fondly, reaching down to pick him up with an arm before turning to the beheaded droid on the floor of the cargo hold. “We need to get rid of this, now, baby.” He tries to lean over your bicep, reaching for the black body, but you hold him tighter to yourself. Glancing down, you pull the brown robe out of his face and sigh, kissing the spot between his ears and making sure he has a good grip on your ring. 

Settling him against your hip, you lean down and pick up the droid’s head, throwing it overboard down into the hatch followed with the body that lands with a huge, undignified, and inelegant crash and there’s a loud shout.

Peering over the side of the hatch, your eyebrows shoot up when you see a stumbling Twi’lek rubbing at his head and you frown. The droid parts are splattered around the Twi’lek as he tries to regain his balance but fails, falling to his knees. Immediately another shape comes into view and you recognize Mando with a flood of relief.

“Hey,” you call unhelpfully as the kid lurches forward, trying to reach his dad. Pulling back, you turn to put the kid in his little box in the pod before returning to the hatch and helping Mando pull the dazed Twi’lek into the _Crest._ “This the prisoner?”

“Yes.” Binded, the prisoner looks like he’s going to foster a nasty concussion and you aren’t guilty at all. You haul him in, pushing him near the end of the hold where he can knock out in peace as Mando climbs in, closing the hatch behind him. 

Once you’re sure the prisoner won’t spontaneously die, you grab the kid and return with him to the cockpit where Mando’s already uncoupling the ship. Plucking your ring out of his grasp, you manage to slide it back onto your thumb and approach the pilot’s seat.

“And the others?” you ask quietly as they detach from the transport and begin their way back to the space station. 

“In a cell,” he replies. You nod. The kid coos, still trying to reach for his dad and you smile, grabbing hold of the pilot’s chair as they go into hyperspace. “Did you have to throw a droid on him?”

“I didn’t know he was there,” you retort defensively. “And he deserves it.” _Tch_ ing, you hold back a sly smile when you realize that Xi’an is trapped in a cell, hopefully for good. Instead, you lean forward and put the kid in Mando’s lap. His hand, on reflex, wraps around him, accidentally trapping your hand against the kid and your head snaps towards him when he doesn’t pull back like you burned him.

When he lingers, _he_ burns _you_.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” you say quietly, watching hyperspace blue reflect off the the beskar before noticing something dark in his brown layer of under armour. “You’re bleeding.” His thumb brushes over yours before you pull your hand out from under his as he looks down at the offending stain. “I’ll get you the bacta spray.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s small—“

“You might need stitches if it’s bleeding that much,” you retort, knowing you’re right. “I’ll be right back.” You head out of the cockpit, ignoring the heat pooling in your cheeks as you climb down the ladder to grab the small medpac from the hold.

The prisoner’s still awake, unfortunately, and he looks at you with a dangerous grin marked onto his purple face as you grab your holsters from the sleeping pod and clip them back on around your thighs, securing them tightly.

“And who are you?” he asks, voice rasping and strung with murderous intentions as you glance over.

“The one who dropped a droid on you,” you reply.

“Ah.” He chuckles—a sound that sends vile shivers through your stomach and makes you tense as you close the pod and open the weapons locker, pulling out the medpac. “Definitely Mando’s type.”

It takes all you can _not_ to yell, “Shut up.”

.

You hear Mando’s footsteps, the _thump_ of his landing when he jumps off the ladder. You look up. Your knees are bent up as you look at your ring in the pale light, but you tear your eyes away when he looks at you and you smile. Leaving the space station finally meant that they could take a breath and you feel relief at seeing him before you.

“Hi.”

“Hey.” He walks over and you extend a hand up. “I stitched it up.”

“Good. Come sit with me,” you say, a knot forming in your chest when you realize there is a very real possibility he won’t take your hand or even sit beside you. “It’s been… it’s been a day.” 

And then, a hand slips into yours, squeezing your palm gently before Mando sits down besides you—collapses more like, with a soft groan you can hear—and you smile. You rest their joined hands on your knee as you keep looking at your ring, turn it over between your fingers. He leans back until his helmet _clanks_ against the wall of the cargo hold and you try to hide your smile at how his hip is against yours, shoulders brushing.

He’s so _close_.

“The kid sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good.” You don’t know where they’re going—probably to some Outer Rim world, find a place to lay low and make up a plan, but anywhere seems better now that there isn’t some blaster aimed at you or Mando.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks and you look at him, nodding.

“Always.”

“What does that ring mean?”

“Oh.” You look at the silver band again. “It was my grandfather’s. My grandmother gave it to him to signify her love for him. I, uh”—you clear your throat—“it’s difficult to explain, but it means a lot to me.”

Are you imagining his hum or does he actually do it as if to tease you? “I have time.”

“Yeah, but that means telling you things I’ve never told anyone else,” you admit, voice small. His fingers shift against yours and you watch their held hands, the way his glove feels against your skin, and you tentatively stretch your fingers, slot them between his. Your heart is pounding in your chest. 

Out of your peripheral vision, you can see Mando looking, too.

“You don’t have to,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry—“

“No, no, don’t be,” you rush. “It’s… it’s just, before I left Kijimi, my mother told me I shouldn’t reveal any part of myself because if the wrong people found out who I was, they’d kill me or try to take me. Hurt me.”

“Like the Client,” he assumes.

You nod. “I know about what he’s looking for, and the fact is… I was actually born on Coruscant. I don’t know how much you know about the Old Republic, but I lived there until my grandmother died in this big event called… my mother called it the Great Purge. Not unlike the Mandalorian Purge, I’m guessing. I was, uh… I was two and sometimes I have these flashing dreams. I don’t really remember that day, but I know that’s what my dreams are about.” You swallow, jaw clenching as you look at the ring again. “My grandmother was murdered by—by clones, something like that, and basically her whole group was killed too. My grandfather, mother, and father got off world before they were killed in the crossfire. Anyways—Grandad gave Mom this ring and this is the story she told me so, uh, take it with a grain of salt, okay?”

You look at him, only to find he’s watching you so tenderly, even with the beskar blocking him away. You just… you know.

“Apparently, my grandmother was part of some group… religious, maybe? It forbade any type of romantic relationship, you know. She was a protector, and passionate relations got in the way of duty, something like that, but… she loved my grandfather enough to break those rules. You know, she—she managed to have my mom in secret, saying she was on some off-world mission, or _something,_ and they loved each other. Against all odds, all those rules saying they couldn’t be together, they were. They loved each other.” Your heart wrenches in your chest and your throat is the size of a needle. “I hold onto it because… it reminds me that my family loves each other. Loved each other. I think my grandmother would’ve given up that order for my grandfather, you know? And my mom and dad gave me up, and now that I have the kid, I know how much that must’ve fucking hurt. Like it felt like their whole world was tearing apart and there was nothing they could do about it. I get it, now. You know—my mom gave this to me the day she sent me off, and I get why, now.”

There’s a silence where you watch the light play off the grooves in the metal before shaking your head, an incredulous, mirthless smile passing over your face.

“It’s stupid, I know, but—“

“No, it isn’t.” Soft, raspy, the words make your breath stall in your throat and your gaze turns to Mando again. He squeezes your hand. “It’s your history and your family. That isn’t stupid.” Face pinching into a scrutinizing yet relieved expression, the corners of your lips pull up. “I wish I had something to remember my parents by,” he continues on quietly, and you scoot closer without realizing it as you slide your ring back on and cover his hand with your other one. Your knees pull up tighter to your chest. “Wasn’t much older than the kids back on Sorgan.” In your head, you do the math and your heart drops into the pits of your stomach. “Droids destroyed my village, killed my parents.”

“Mando…” 

“I was just happy the Tribe took me in.”

 _Oh._ “You were a foundling,”you realize, chest caving in at the thought of a small child, eyes bloodshot, cheeks wet with tears in the arms of a Mandalorian warrior not unlike the one you hold onto now. “That’s why you hate droids.”

Silence. You know you’re right. You don’t say you’re sorry—you’re sure Mando won’t care for your sympathies now—so you say nothing at all and instead let the quiet consume them. With the hand he does not hold, you reach to hold his bicep, running your hand up and down his arm and you hope he understands.

His head tilts towards you and you take that as the smallest invitation to continue.

“Maybe a memory could be enough, even if it begins to fade,” you whisper, your eyes fluttering over his mask, imagining what his expression would be now. 

Sad, determined, guilty? All of them? None of them?

There is an intangible idea of it somewhere in your head.

“Yeah.”

“We could go back to that world,” you suggest tentatively. “Maybe… I don’t know. I know you left that life behind, but still—“

“Maybe.”

You don’t know how long they sit like that for. Fingers entwined, you holding onto his arm, but it’s long. The sound of the engine thrumming, the occasional whir of some mechanism or other—the only sounds left when they don’t speak—lull you and you feel your eyelids grow heavy as your head begins to loll.

“Mando,” you murmur. A soft hum in response. “I have a question but you don’t have to answer unless you want to.”

His grasp on your hand tightens and you wrap your hand tighter around his bicep. 

“The job on Alzoc III,” you ask him quietly. You remember Xi’an mentioning it, the way Mando had jumped on the defensive. “When Xi’an said you liked it…”

“I did what I had to,” he repeats his earlier answer, and you frown at him. “That’s not who I am anymore.”

“She said your Code made you soft.” Nervously, you press on, “I’m… I’m glad that it did.”

You’ve already come to expect his lack of answer _as_ his answer, so you simply turn your head and tentatively rest your temple against his pauldron. Their armour clacks together and his helmet nudges against your head as you wrap your whole arm around his, body curving into him. Your knees fall into his lap and their joined hands rest on the crook of your leg as you let your eyes flutter shut.

You can hear a gentle sigh through his filter before his hold on you tightens.

“I like my armour on you,” he admits quietly, fending off the seductive pull of sleep for a moment. You shift against his shoulder and his other hand reaches to hold your arm, your shoulder—embracing you.

Almost.

He continues, “It fits you better.”

“Now, you’re just saying things,” you mumble and his breath comes out quick and sharp like he’s laughing under that bucket, and you smile to yourself because both of them know that Mando doesn’t just _say_ things. 

He means them. 

He always means them.

7.

The transmission replays in your head.

_“Bring the child and the woman as bait.”_

“The kid doesn’t want to go back to Nevarro.”

“Really? Couldn’t have guessed considering he almost crashed us.” Cara’s dry tone isn’t lost on you as they land on Arvala-7. “Do you?”

“Considering I was tortured last time?” You suppress a shiver as you holster your blaster and descend down onto the sandy ground. Breathing in the air, you remember even the taste of it and a swelling in your chest makes you long to go back to where you used to live with the kid. Before everything got so fucking complicated. “Not particularly, but any chance to kill that old bastard is good enough for me.”

“You got history.”

“We’ve met before. Last time, I figured out he wanted something from me and I’ll die before I give it to him.” A hard sigh. “I just want him gone.”

As they walk towards the Ugnaught’s house, you fall into step beside Mando. 

He must’ve overheard your brief exchange because he walks close enough that their elbows nudge against each other and his knuckles brush against the back of your hand before he continues on.

.

Second meal is served and you realize IG-11 returns back to the cargo hold with only one in tow. Cara grabs a tray and sits down with the kid who’s being fed by Kuiil despite the glare she sends at the baby who’s babbling nonsensically to the Ugnaught. Making sure everyone’s not fighting, you tell IG-11 you’re gonna head up with Mando’s tray anyway and he gives you some bullshit about how he already said he’s not hungry before you insist.

You climb the ladder and enter the cockpit quietly. Mando’s piloting the ship with a razor focus you see only when he doesn’t want to focus on anything else and you clear your throat.

“I know you said you aren’t hungry, but you and I both know fighting on an empty stomach makes you slow,” you reply lightly “It’s full of carbohydrates. We’ll need the energy.” Setting the tray down on one of the seats, you approach the pilot’s chair when he doesn’t turn around. “Mando. Talk to me.” Hands settle on the shoulders of the chair, and your fingers brush along beskar as he sighs. “It’s not just the droid.”

“Besides that thing trying to kill the baby before?” he asks sarcastically and your lips press into a grim smile. 

“Mando.”

“I don’t like the idea of going back to Nevarro. The kid’s small enough we can act as if he’s in his crib, but we can’t hide you. You’ll have to be there.”

“I’ll be _fine,_ ” you insist, reaching up to run a hand down the side of his beskar. A faint smile graces your lips. “You know I can take care of myself and I want this.” Another audible sigh and you lean down to press a kiss to the top of his helmet, your heart hammering in your throat. “Don’t worry about me.”

“But…” You wonder if it’s as hard to articulate how you feel as it is for him, if that’s why his voice fades before he can finish his thought. 

“I want to kill him,” you whisper against the warm beskar. “This is the one chance we have to do this and keep the kid safe, and I won’t leave that planet until he’s warm and dead, so please.” Your eyes close, now. “Please, eat something.” Your fingers bend against his shoulder and he finally lets go of the pilot’s controls, reaching up to pull the wrist of the hand on his helmet down and your eyebrows furrow together before he wraps fingers around your palm and squeezes.

“Go join the others,” he says. Your eyes open and look at their hands. His thumb swipes across your hand soothingly and your heart rends. “Leave the tray.”

Swallowing, you nod and kiss his helmet again. “Thank you.”

Your grip on his hand tightens and then he lets go and you slip back out. As the door closes and you begin your climb down the ladder, you see his hands raise to his helmet and you avert your eyes, dropping back down into the cargo hold.

.

You’ve never been the second passenger on a blurrg before. 

Riding on one now, your arms wrapped tight around Mando, you can’t help but feel exposed. Your hand rests on your thigh, near your blaster.

“ _So, this little bogwing is what all the fuss was about. What a precious little creature! I can see why you didn’t want to harm a hair on its wrinkled little head. And who is this beautiful young woman, Mando?”_

_“The Child’s protector.”_

_“Must be more than that. I’ve never seen you let anyone even near you.”_ A look to you. _“Greef Karga.”_

_“I’m not interested in pleasantries.”_

Your fingers twitch and Mando turns his head slightly, a tell that you shouldn’t be so obvious, but you’re suspicious, just as you should be.

And then the kid heals Karga with the Force and you have to think there’s some debt to be repaid with that favour.

You’re right.

What you don’t expect is for Mando to send you back to the _Crest._

 _“_ …She and the kid go back in the ship.”

“What? _No_!” you snap. “I came here to kill the Client.”

“Without them, none of this works,” Karga agrees.

“I have a plan. Kuiil, ride back to the _Razor Crest_ with them and seal yourself in.” Opening your mouth to argue, you feel your words fail in your rage. “When you’re inside, engage ground security protocols. Nothing on this planet will breach those doors.”

The Ugnaught walks forward but you plant yourself in front of Mando, staring into his visor.

“I am not going back to the ship.”

“We don’t have time to argue.”

“I came here for a reason and you’re asking me to let it go?”

“He’ll be dead.”

“I need to see it. I need to know that he’s dead and see it for myself.”

“No. His obsession with you is why we need to keep you safe in the first place.“

“Mando, I won’t just sit on my ass.”

“Maybe you should listen to her.”

“No. You and the kid are both going back.”

“If it were me, I wouldn’t want to stay back from a fight.”

“You were a shock trooper. This is different.”

“How? The guy probably ruined her life.”

“He killed my father!” you shout, your face mere inches away from his. “I am _not_ going to be sent back like I’m still some helpless little girl!” A stony silence fills the air and your deep scowl is fixed on your face as your chest begins to ache like someone has pried your ribs open and reached inside. “My mom got me on that freighter to Naboo before they could get to me and the gangs he paid off gunned him down right in front of me, so don’t you dare think about sending me back to the ship.” Your throat tightens and your words, biting and poisonous, hang in the air as you turn to look at Karga, Cara, Kuiil. 

“What kind of Imperial was he?” Cara asks softly and your gaze finds hers. Your eyes are stinging and you pull away from Mando who still stands there, stunned. You wipe at your dry face and take in a lungful of chilly, dusty air.

Everything’s gotten colder now.

“He was an ISB officer who worked in the surveillance branch, operating mostly in Mid-Rim territories. He was trying to find ancestors of the victims in the Great Purge during the days of the Old Republic. Rare as they are, they fucking exist.”

“That’s how he found you,” Mando rasps and your gaze jerks towards him.

“He knows I’ve found something he’s looking for—that I know where it is and that it's a threat. He won’t stop until he gets that intel and the kid.” In truth, you have inklings of ideas. There are an innumerable number of things you know of, things that you were told—you just believe that the one person that stays at the top of that dangerous list of intel is the one he searches for.

“This is more reason for you to go back,” Cara argues.

“Who’s side are you on?” you snap but a hand touches yours and you turn to see the Ugnaught who reaches past you to give Mando a comlink. 

“Or more reason for her to continue on,” Kuiil says. “She fights well and has fended off many hunters before you, Mandalorian,” he adds and your eyes flicker from the Ugnaught to Mando who’s still silent. “She walks a path neither of us understand. I see that, now.”

“A path,” you echo. “What do you know of what I am, Kuiil?”

“I saw the wreckage. I have heard rumours of your weapon,” he adds, nodding to the thing on your belt. “No time for that here.” He dips his head towards you respectfully. “I will keep the Child safe. Don’t forget to cover your stripes,” he says to Cara, walking to the pram and you close your eyes, taking a deep breath before turning to Mando again. 

You stand there, in his reshaped armour, and hope whatever is between them is enough to convince him.

It is. 

“Mando…”

“I know.”

You know he hates it.

Cara rests binders on your wrists and pulls cloth over your eyes, tying it tight around your head. Opening your mouth, you let her gag you, too, and pull an emptied bag over your head as Karga binds Mando and takes his blaster.

“Where do you want this thing?” Cara asks, pulling the weapon from your belt. 

“Keep it,” you say. “Give it to me when I need it but you are _not_ using that thing.” Your tone leaves no room for doubt and neither does the situation. You can sense Cara’s nod before she takes your elbow and guides you towards the men. Walking forward, you feel your fingers nudge against gloves and Mando immediately grabs your hand, crushing your knuckles. “Mando—“

“It’s going to be okay,” he says. Lies. You can feel his stare on you even through the bag over your head and the beskar over his.

You swallow, knowing you must look absolutely helpless as you feel, now. Nothing like a confident fighter and everything like a fucking damsel.

But right now, you _do_ feel pretty damn helpless so you let Mando hold your hand until you think your bones will break.

“I know.”

Then, they begin the walk to the city.

.

It’s the calm before the storm. You stand by the empty pram, the bag ripped off your head yet you still stand gagged and blindfolded as the Client stands up to answer the call.

Cara leans over to Karga. Your ears prick as you hear one of the Stormtroopers shift on his feet. The whole room is bristling with tension and your knees lock as you hold your breath.

Maybe, that’s why everything seems so slow.

The instant the Client dies, you feel it happen. He dies too fast, his heart sporting a burnt hole as his blood falls to the ground in gushing splatters just as more plasma shatters the glass in a messy spray. Falling to your knees, you let out a choked sound when plasma catches the juncture between your back and your neck.

Cara tackles you to the ground, covering your body with hers as she looks out for any Stormtroopers who might’ve evaded fire and with her other hand, she rips the soaked gag out of your mouth and lifts the blindfold while you pull your hands out of the binders. 

She rolls off of you and a guttural grunt tears through your throat as the others get up and you push yourself to all fours when the dust begins to settle, blood dripping down your neck and onto the floor beween your hands. Slapping a palm over your neck, you hiss at the cold, deep sting that sinks into your muscles and nearly paralyzes you. It clipped your skin good, ripping out and cauterizing a good portion of your flesh but blood still seeps between your fingers as hands grab you. 

Wrenched onto your knees, you gasp at the burning sensation that spreads through your entire neck and shoulder as gloves pry your hand away to inspect the damage.

“Shit.”

“How bad?” you rasp, the taste of burning flesh already ripe in your mouth as Mando grabs your hand again and pushes it against the burn. It only amplifies the pain and tears spring into your eyes as you squeeze them tight, struggling to your feet and towards cover. He helps you, hiding them both but your knees give out as a cold shiver overtakes you. Slamming your back against the wall, you slide down to the floor and try not to move your head. The flesh is ribbed and uneven most where the plasma had shot through you, and you’ll probably bleed out in time.

Forcing your eyes open, you squint at the wreckage.

“I need something to tie around my neck and shoulders,” you call out weakly. Cara’s on the other side of the cantina, Mando’s beside you, and Karga’s on your other side. The Client’s dead facedown and you feel a vindictive pleasure in seeing the pool of blood beneath him with those empty eyes in that wrinkled fucking face.

Dazedly, quietly, you think: _I win._

“Someone grab that bastard’s jacket,” you add shakily and Mando turns around to look at Karga who holds back a sigh. Crouching, the Guild agent sneaks over towards the dead body, pulling out a vibroblade from his boot and cutting up clean strips of fabric.

“Karga, hurry up!”

Your eyes flutter shut again and you let out a painful groan. Your skin is searing to the touch and as you remove your hand from the wound, your skin sticks to skin, pulling and sending sharp shards of pain through your neck. Gasping for breath, you let your head knock back as Mando crouches beside you with a bottle of alcohol. You feel his hand on your shoulder as Karga comes back and he begins the task of cutting away your under armour layer to get clean parameters. Pulling off your pauldron and loosening the cuirass on one side so it hangs free, Mando starts with pouring alcohol all over your burn, trying to sanitize the wound.

Holding back a scream, you clench your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut, your hand finding his forearm and digging your nails in. Pushing against the floor, your whole body tenses as he stops the pour and begins to wrap your neck.

“If you want to tell me ‘I told you so,’” you whisper breathlessly as he works. “Now’s the time.”

“Later,” he retorts, doing his best to bandage your neck, your shoulder, the curve in between. “Watching him die good enough for you?” You know he’s talking to keep you distracted and you smile through your pained wince, teeth clenched as he ties it tight and tucks the fabric into the folds. He straps on your pauldron again, tying your cuirass tight around your waist, and you suck in a sharp breath as a tear slips down your cheek. Bloody gloved fingers brush along your jaw and you turn your head towards him with a growing smile.

“I won.”

You reach up to grab his hand and you find it, fingers snagging on his before he lets go and stands again, and your vision, already edged with shadow, begins to fade as you ease against the stone wall. You have never felt something so comfortable.

Eyes fluttering shut, you hear Cara distantly ask if there’s another way out.

There isn’t.

“She isn’t going to last much longer,” the former shock trooper points out and you shake your head despite the flaring pain. 

“I’ll be _fine_ ,” you retort.

“You can’t keep your eyes open. She’ll bleed to death.” 

Tongue thick in your mouth, you try to respond but the words won’t come as you try to examine your surroundings. Nausea swimming behind your ears, you gulp down air and try to keep your guts inside you as you try to get up. Your legs are cold and numb, a prickling sensation stabbing into your feet as Karga forces you to sit back down and you let out an incoherent mumble. 

“Banthafucker.”

“Excuse me for trying to save your life.”

“You sent hunters after me. I get to say it’s even,” you hiss just as the sound of rapid gunfire alerts you to something. “What… what are they doing?”

“Trying to open a sewer vent.”

“Fuck.” Rolling onto all fours, you push yourself onto your feet despite Karga’s protests just as whoever the fuck’s outside speaks up.

“Your astute panic suggests that you understand your situation.” Leaning heavily against the wall, you twist around to see an E-Web being set up and your heart drops into the pits of your stomach. You’re not sure if you’re even feeling the fear or if that’s just the paralyzing pain. “I would prefer to avoid any further violence, and encourage a moment of consideration.”

 _Bastard,_ you think, turning back towards where you heard the gunfire coming from. Stumbling forward blindly, you can hear your heart beating, a deafening pulse in your ears just as hands grab onto your forearms and guide you ungracefully back to the floor.

“Stay down,” Cara murmurs. “You’re freaking him out.” Him being Mando. It’s touching, but you don’t care as you shake your head.

“I’m fucking _fine._ ”

“If you are unfamiliar with this weapon...” 

“How is he still talking?” you complain quietly, boots slipping in the dust of the cantina as you lean back. Cara’s arms are probably the only thing keeping you up as your head lolls and your hearing goes to shit. It’s like you’re listening to everything underwater and you can barely make out words. Reaching up to touch your neck, the fabric squelches under the pressure and you choke out a cough into your palm, opening your eyes and looking down at your hand where dark blood rests.

Pitching forward, your mind goes black as your head collides with Cara’s shoulder and you slip in and out, the pulls of sleep luring you deeper into a comforting promise of rest. You catch bits of what he’s saying, but not too much, until one specific moment.

“…songs of the Siege of Mandalore… and urge you to lay down your arms and come outside… it was, after all, the ways of the Jedi to prioritize diplomacy in the name of peace. Perhaps your grandmother’s gift, her role as Consular and natural ability for statecraft has been passed onto you as well.”

“The Jedi,” Cara repeats as you open your eyes painfully, head tilting back lazily and she cups the back of your skull, looking into your barely-open eyes. “You’re a Jedi?”

“A _what_?” Karga asks.

“I don’t know what that is,” you wheeze, acid crawling up your throat. Meeting Cara’s eyes, you fight the blood bubbling in your mouth and swallow it down instead, the metallic tang carving a hollowing feeling into your chest. _Jedi, Jedi, Jedi._

You haven’t heard that word in years as Cara lets go of your arms and Mando crouches before you. 

When the man outside the cantina gives them until nightfall, you grab onto his hand.

“We need to get out of here,” you whisper, squinting to make out his face.

“I say we hear him out. If we leave, we can get her medical help,” Karga argues to Cara. “He even said so: she’s of use to him.”

“The minute we open that door, we’re dead and I’m not so willing to sacrifice another one of my friends to Imps.”

“We’re _dead_ if we don’t. She’s our one bargaining chip. At least out there, we’ve got a shot.”

“I can _hear_ you,” you call out weakly as Mando wipes at your mouth. “Glad to know he was right with the self-interest part of his speech.”

Exasperated: “I’m being _realistic._ ”

“Piss off, Karga,” you retort, voice stronger as you inch yourself up against the wall, sitting up straighter.

“I’m a Rebel Shock Trooper. They’ll upload me to a Mind Flayer.” 

“Those aren’t real. That was just wartime propaganda.”

“How’re you feeling?” Mando’s soft baritone catches your attention and you turn your head towards him, smiling faintly. His hand falls away from your chin.

“Peachy,” you tell him. “Where’s this sewer vent I hear we’re trying to get open?” He side steps, pulling his cape aside and you spot the thing by overturned benches. Some of the bars have been cut by plasma and the metal is still red-orange from the heat. “Shit, I can…” You raise a hand weakly. “I can open it.”

“You can barely stand. Don’t move and save your strength.”

“But, Mando—“

“What about you, Mando?” The two turn to look at Karga and you squint at the grey light behind him. The man’s face is warped with worry, sweat coating his brow and Mando stands. Your eyes fall to the vent again.

“I know who he is.” 

You tilt your head up.

“It’s Moff Gideon.”

Fuck. 

It’s the only word adequate enough to describe your situation as your eyes flutter shut.

.

“Hey, stay with me,” Cara shouts as she climbs onto the countertop and you jolt awake to the sound of blaster fire. Your neck, sticky with old blood and new, pulses and you blink blearily. When did you fall asleep? How long have you been out of the game?

You hear the door hiss open and you turn to see Mando walk into the fray, kicking one of the bucketheads onto his ass. Groaning, you rub at your face, smearing old blood over your cheeks and pulling yourself up with claw-like grabs on whatever you can get a handle on to survey the battlefield. IG-11’s crouched over a green blob and your heart nearly stops when you see the kid’s floppy green ears through the smoke and dust rising up.

Then, the door explodes open and your world goes fucking upside down. 

Loud ringing in your ears, you press yourself against the wall as Cara falls off the counter and you dig your heels in. If you fall now, if your knees give up on you _now,_ you’ll fall forward and be easy target practice for the Troopers standing outside the door. They open fire, their shots chipping concrete, knocking and bursting glasses. 

Sucking in a deep breath, you try to blink the swaying sensation out of your head before letting your skull knock back into the wall. Concrete litters your feet and you breathe in dust, trying not to act on the tempting idea of coughing your lungs out.

_Come on, Cara. Fucking deal with it. Deal with it. Deal with it—_

She does a moment later and your knees buckle. Back sliding down, you close your eyes. There’s a huge fucking tangle in your brain, twisting tighter with the sound and it’s getting hard to organize your thoughts as Cara returns to your side. Finding her shoulder blindly, you hold her close.

“Cara, hand me… hand me the weapon.”

“You can’t fight them,” she says as you force your body to move. It’s like fighting a mudhorn getting your limbs to work the way you want it to and you push yourself up again despite your bones having a smashed, broken sensation. Sweat drips down your temple and you wipe at it as hands find your elbows, keeping you up. Holding onto Cara’s shoulder, you meet her eyes.

“Just _give_ me the weapon.”

She sighs, unclipping the thing and placing it in your hand. The cool metal is an instant contrast to your whole body burning up and you start to feel cold, your stomach turning over as you push your feet into the ground, locking your knees and taking a tentative step to the vent. Cara’s hands find your elbows, helping you forward. Glancing outside again, you see Mando holding the E-Web and you see him swivel to aim just as the Moff lowers his blaster.

You’re screaming before the explosion sends Mando flying onto his back. 

“ _Mando!”_

It’s piercing and you lurch towards the window, ripping free of Cara’s grip. The world goes silent and blood floods your mouth as Cara pulls you back. Tears track down your cheeks as you wait, wait for Mando to fucking _get up_ but he doesn’t and your feet kick out as the ex-shock trooper hauls you behind cover but still you thrash forward.

He doesn’t move as Troopers group up behind the Moff and your head snaps to Cara. Twisting in her arms, you shove your face into hers.

“Get him,” you whisper, grabbing at her chest plate. Your voice is shaking uncontrollably as you stare, frenzied into the woman’s face. “Go! Get him!”

“You need to sit down—“

“Let go of me! Get him!” Ripping your arms free, you stumble backwards into the opposing wall, your vision going askew. Blackness dots the cantina as your boots slide in the debris, your knees giving in as soon as she’s not holding you up anymore, but no one comes to help you.

Just a mere few steps have left your head spinning and aching as you reaffirm your grip on the weapon and sink into a crumpled heap on the dusty floor of the cantina.

You can’t get that image out of your head: Mando flying, Mando landing, Mando _unmoving_.

 _He’s not dead,_ a part of you whispers as you roll onto your knees, spitting out a glob of saliva rich with blood. It dribbles down your chin and your hand seeks purchase on the wall, fingers slipping through the grate of the sewer.

Staring into the darkness, you swallow down the rest of the blood clotting in your throat and gag at the taste, pitching forward until your forehead is pressed against cold stone. 

Fingers wrapping around the weapon, you close your eyes and let the tears fall.

 _You would’ve felt it if he died,_ the voice continues as your thumb finds the button of the weapon and you press it with a soft, subtle _click._

Green plasma shoots out of the top of the hilt and you feel the buzz of the power cell before the blinding light of the lightsaber. Eyes closed, you sink the blade into the metal grate and the rails melt instantly as you feel soft hands hold your face, touch tear-stained and bloody cheeks.

_He lives. You know he does, sweetheart._

The door whirs shut and you raise your head. You can’t even see at this point, exhaustion so potent you cannot bear to open your eyes. Your hand still on the weapon, you manage to drag it through the grate, enough that a good kick could probably get it to cave and a flimsy smile crosses over your face as you touch the warm metal with your other hand.

“What the hell…”

The words are lost on you as you press the button and the blade retracts into the hilt. You’re boiling from the inside out and you don’t know how much longer you can hold back your desire to just succumb to the sleep the darkness is promising you as you collapse against the wall, face slick with sweat. Clouds of heat press against your neck, yet chills overtake your body until your hands are trembling, and you let go of the weapon, the strength sapped from your fingers. It rolls away and you let out an incoherent sound as something is set down beside you.

You only realize it’s Karga when he grabs your face and your eyes flicker open just barely.

“Hey, hey. Stick with me, kid.” Then, heavier, metal footsteps.

“If you go near this child, I will have no choice but to kill you.” IG-11. Fuck, you have never been so glad to hear that voice. 

“I understand.”

“Stay with me,” Cara’s breathless voice pleads and you turn your head away, into Karga’s palm just to see Mando’s still form. Reaching out with your fingers, you ask the question silently.

“He’s alive,” she assures. “And he’s going to _stay_ that way.”

“Can you do anything to move the grate?” Karga snaps to IG, letting go of your hand to take point. The droid’s standing by a pack holding the kid and you swallow a glob of blood, gagging as it goes down.

“Yes. It appears that an unfinished, yet effective attempt has already been made. It will be moved shortly.”

Despite the warning signs in your body blaring in your mind—the burning pain, the numbness in your fingers and toes, the spinning head and spotty vision—you push yourself up and drag yourself towards Mando who’s leaning against a booth. Your fingers find his beskar cuirass, dragging up to his shoulders, and you cup his helmet.

“Mando,” you breathe. “M—Mando—“

“Go,” he murmurs to Cara. “We’re not gonna make it.”

“Shut up. You just got your bell rung. You’ll be fine,” Cara snaps as you frown, feeling something warm and sticky slicken your fingers. “And you. You stay down for once. Lie down and I’ll get to you, too.” Your chest sinks and you shake your head. You feel like you’re swimming, entire body rocking unsteadily on your knees.

“Leave,” he wheezes.

Moving your hand away, you look down and see the blood, blood Cara sees, too, as she tries to regain her breath, keep some kind of gritty optimism in her voice.

“Mando…” you murmur and his helmet turns towards you just as a hand reaches up to brush the blood on your chin off. Your knees are digging painfully into the concrete and you know you’re about to lose consciousness any moment but fucking _damn_ it if you go out before Mando.

His crooked index finger trails down your jaw, to your bleeding neck, and he holds onto you there. You shiver at the soft touch of his palm, the trembling in his fingers compared to the raging, stabbing fires inside you.

“We’re not gonna make it,” he rasps and you nod, a small smile pulling at your face as fresh tears streak down your face. Pulling his hand off your neck, you hold it against your cheek and his thumb stretches to brush under your eye. His breath is uneasy, wheezing and rasping, echoing in your head.

“I’m gonna need to take this thing off,” Cara protests but Mando stops her before she can lift it any higher. He doesn’t look away from you as he repeats for her, the rest of them, to leave. His breath comes even harsher and you set your other bloodied hand on his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat, his lifeforce weakening with every faint breath.

“You make sure the Child is safe,” he pants, reaching up to rip something off his neck, and his hand begins to go limp under yours as you pitch forward, falling off your knees and crashing against the booth. You hear a resonating _crack_ in your skull, a weak call of your name, and Mando’s hand falling away from your face as you slip into the abyss.

This time, not even Cara shaking your shoulders can wake you up.

8.

“What does it mean, Mama?” It’s an innocent question in the wake of your grandfather’s death. You know it means a lot to your mother, to your grandfather before her, but… it’s hard to understand. 

It’s just a shiny ring.

A gentle, pained laugh: “Well, when your grandma and grandpa were still alive, it meant that they loved each other very much.”

You nod sagely. “Like you and Daddy.”

“Like your father and I,” she agrees. “I gave this to your father the day I married him.” She holds the ring up to the light and your eyes widen as you reach up but your mother laughs again, holding you in her lap. This time, the sound is gentler, warmer. “In our family, this ring signifies the love we have for each other. A love that transcends all codes, all vows or contracts or rules.”

“But sometimes Daddy comes home late when he promises that he’ll be back early,” you point out with a small scowl that doesn’t befit your face. “That seems like he doesn’t love you.”

“Sweetheart, it’s not the little things. We fight over the little things enough, and you know me, I could beat your father with a hand behind my back.” You giggle when she bops your nose before handing you the ring after sliding it onto a leather cord. “But no, this ring means that even when we’re far apart, we love each other still. Even when we’re gone.” She rests her chin on your head and hands you the cord. You take it in your hands, reaching to grab the ring and you hold it in your own hands, tracing the grooves with the pad of your fingers. 

“So, Grandma loved Grandpa a lot, then,” you say. “You always said Grandpa talked a lot about Grandma after we moved here.”

“He did. It took time—it hurt him a lot after she died. He loved her so much he never asked her to leave this group she was part of, but she would’ve done it anyway.”

“Because,” you begin quizzically, “she loved him?”

“Very much. Nearly as much as how much I love you.” A kiss to the crown of your head and you wrinkle your nose. “I can only hope you find someone who loves you, sweetheart, and when you do, when you’re absolutely sure, this ring will mean everything.”

.

You wake up in a boat floating down a river of lava.

Granted, there are worse places to wake up, and Mando immediately comes to your side when you stir, helping you sit up. The cloth on your neck has peeled away and you groan at the dull ache keeping your stiff neck in place as you try to look around. Everywhere is glowing or bathed in orange light, and you sniff in the smell of sulfur.

“You’re awake.”

“Yeah.” You reach up to touch your wound only to find it closed up, residual texture from the burns still lingering and it feels like a huge bruise spread throughout your neck and shoulder. It’s tender and more intense where the plasma had clipped you directly, sharp tingling pain pricking at your muscles and you drop your hand, looking up at Mando. “So are you.” Bending your knees, you grit your teeth as you try to stand, and Mando helps you stand.

His fingers dig in like he’s afraid you’re gonna collapse and you let him help, ending up chest-to-chest with the man before pulling back and clearing your throat. Cara walks over to you, the kid in her arms, and you smile at the woman.

“Good to see you up.” _Had us a little worried,_ you fill in the blanks easily. Looking down into the pack, you’re relieved when the kid’s ears perk up and he giggles. “He was worried, for sure.”

“Oh, well, it’s nice not dying,” you reply, twisting around to look at the others. IG and Karga are just watching, and you become aware that Mando’s hand is still on your elbow, your own grip on his arm unfaltering.

“The bacta spray came into effect but you lost much of your blood volume. However, a full recovery is predicted,” the droid says and you dip your head. 

“Thank you.” You look at Mando again, raising your hands to his pauldrons and you frown intuitively when you feel something against your palm. Craning your head, you see a signet of the mudhorn beneath your hand. Stepping to get a better look, your lips part at the gorgeous craftsmanship and you break into a smile, swallowing down the pride that threatens to overtake your voice.

You know earning a signet is a great honour and you trace the horn, unable to help your smile.

“When’d you get this?” you ask. Cara steps back to the front of the boat and you lower your tone, grinning at Mando. “It’s gorgeous.” The welding is smooth to the touch and you let your hand drop before you get obsessively full of admiration for the work.

“We’re a clan of three now,” is all he says and your eyes widen, looking up at Mando. Mouth opening, you try to search for something adequate enough but there aren’t words to describe the swelling in your chest, the way you feel like when you’re full after a home-cooked meal. It’s nostalgic, and makes your heart ache, but at the same time, you never want to let that feeling go. Clasping your hands, you feel the ring on your thumb and glance down at your feet.

When you look up at him, your voice is feather-soft: “I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say a thing,” he murmurs, and then he pulls away, leaving you with weak knees and a fluttering stomach for a whole other reason besides your burning neck.

You keep hearing his voice in your head as IG self-destructs at the end of the tunnel.

_A clan of three._

They flow out of the tunnel, smoking bodies of Stormtroopers littering the flats around the mouth of the lava river. The _thudding_ of the wind and fire, the crackling of rock, is all that remains.

Then, an engine roars and you look up to see Gideon flying down on them in a TIE fighter. Whipping out your blaster pistols, you try to land a shot on him but he strafes out of all of their range.

“He missed!”

“He won’t next time.”

“Our blasters are useless against him.”

“Hey, let’s make the baby do the magic hand thing,” Karga suggests and you shoot the Guild agent a dirty look from where you stand over the kid “Come on, baby,” he says, mimicking the kid’s three-fingered hand, “do the magic hand thing.”

Looking down, you watch as the baby coos, raises his hand and waves back at Karga. Groaning, you holster your weapon and suck in a deep breath and ignore every cell in your body telling you not to do what you think you can do.

You’ve never done something this big moving this fast before, but if you can do it, then bully for you.

Either that, or you get the biggest fucking migraine of your life.

“I’m out of ideas,” Karga admits as Mando holsters his blaster.

“I’m not.”

The high-pitched sound of the TIE circling back catches their attention and Cara raises her gun as you holster your blasters. Grunting, Mando gets up and swings the jetpack on, clicking it into place as you step past Cara, plant a foot on the edge of the lava boat. The ex-shock trooper begins to fire as the TIE speeds closer and the sound of the jetpack igniting catches your eye. 

_Closer, closer, closer—_

Then, Mando shoots up in the air and you don’t get the chance to put the TIE into stasis before it’s shooting off into the distance. Cursing, you grab the kid in the pack.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” you tell the others, jumping off the lava boat and walking onto the warm rock. Turning to make sure Cara and Karga get off okay, you lead the way back in the direction you think the _Crest_ is in, your head beginning to ache.

You can’t wait to just sleep for the rest of the year.

Mando lands down before you not even a few minutes and a loud explosion later, and you set the kid down. 

Crouching, you watch him tumble out of the bag while Karga talks of letting Mando back in the Guild—Cara staying on Nevarro.

Maybe everything’s looking up.

_A clan of three._

Whispering to the baby, you tickle the back of his ear. “Go to your dad, kid. Go on.” The baby waddles forward and you hold back a laugh when he cranes his head to look up at Mando, wrapping his short little arms around his boot. Covering your smile with a fist, you catch Mando looking down the baby before looking at you and you straighten up as Karga suggests he takes a break.

Leaning down to pick up the kid, Mando simply says, “I’m afraid I have more pressing matters at hand.” You walk over to him, sighing and Cara steps forward, rubbing the kid’s ear between her fingers with a fond, sad smile. The kid lets out a pleased gurgle, ears perking up and you grin, scratching his head. 

“Take care of this little one.”

“Or maybe,” says Karga, “it’ll take care of you.” 

Mando nods to both of them and you shake Cara’s hand.

“And take care of each other, will you?” 

“I will,” you promise before they both turn around and you take a deep breath. 

Wrapping your arms around Mando, the three of them take off, back to the _Razor Crest._

.

In the fresher, you look at yourself in the mirror and prod at your still-healing burn, gritting your teeth when a flare of pain shoots into your chest. You feel a bit feverish now that the adrenaline is gone, and you’re exhausted, but you really needed to shower and wash the day off. As you stand there with proper bandages wrapping diagonally across your chest, around your neck, and supporting your shoulder, you look like you’ve been through hell. There’s a large smattering of bruising even if you aren’t burnt, and you still need to regain some colour from the blood loss, but you look better, you think.

You feel better, too. 

Letting the bandage go, you sigh and grab your shirt, tentatively poking your head through and lifting the arm on your injured side just as the fresher door opens. Tugging the fabric past your eyes, you see Mando in the mirror as he observes the situation before he helps the shirt sleeve pull over your arm and tugs the shirt down your waist as you let out a frustrated groan.

“I thought you were resting.”

“Nah. I needed to shower, clean up after that whole mess,” you say, gesturing vaguely. Brushing past Mando, you skirt on socked feet through the cargo hold. Bypassing your boots and discarded armour, you pick up your blanket and sit down on the floor, smiling at Mando who watches you curiously.

“You can take the pod.”

“Nah. I need more space than that,” you admit and he doesn’t argue, merely taps on his vambrace to turn down the lights. It goes dark and you lay down on your injured side, throwing the huge blanket over yourself.

You hear the water stream as you adjust the pillow beneath your head and close your eyes. The droning of the stream thrums against your skull and you pull the blanket tight around your chest. 

It feels like moments later when the fresher door opens again, and the light flickers off, and you expect him to climb into the sleeping pod but his quiet footsteps pause. It isn’t the normal sound of his boots, but softer, quieter.

“Are you asleep?” he asks, and your eyes shoot open when you realize his words aren’t masked with a filter. Resisting the urge to roll around despite knowing it’s complete darkness, you shift.

“No.” You clear your throat, fists tightening in the fabric of the blanket and you swallow your nerves as you add on: “You can join me, if you’d like.” 

You hold your breath, wait for him to chastise you for being dumb, wait for him to move—but he doesn’t.

You lay there, he stands there, and there is a moment where time seems to still.

And then, in the darkness, you hear brushing footsteps and someone crouch behind you, the heat of their body seeping into your back. Then, the blanket lifts, and you’re aware of the sound of fabric sliding against metal and the soft grunt of someone laying down beside you and is that your heart hammering in your ears or just your teeth chattering from the cold?

Because you’re still cold sweating, holy fucking _shit._

You try to focus on the faint hum of the engine instead, your own breathing—anything but the unmasked, even inhale and exhale of Mando beside you. Eventually, the pain gets too distracting from resting on your injured side and roll onto your back. Your eyes are closed and suddenly, you are less than tired.

It feels almost _too_ intimate, being here like this. Side by side, in the absolute darkness of his ship.

You tentatively turn to your quiet companion in the blackness, the blanket shifting as your body does. He sounds like he’s asleep, not that you can hear him over the engine, but you’ve learned by now that it doesn’t take much for him to fall asleep, to be efficient in grabbing the rest he can.

You roll onto your other, uninjured side, facing him, and stare at the black, featureless mass before you. Your heart is beating a thousand times a minute, so loud you swear he could hear it as you clutch the blanket to your chest and simply try to think. Your whole body is burning cold and you suppress a wince when you clench your fist tighter. Stretching your fingers up to your bandaged neck, you suck in a breath when you feel the pulse of your heart in your burning flesh,

“Does it hurt?” The unfiltered, raspy voice of your companion makes your head jerk up and you let go of your neck. The man is still on his back, and you can barely see the arch of his nose as he turns to look at you. You can’t make out anything, then. Just a black blob and a handsome voice.

His hand twitches and you feel his fingers flutter near your thigh, fisting the fabric of the scratchy blanket and pulling it a bit off your body. The way it slides off your leg sends goosebumps up your skin and you shiver at the taut pull of his fist. You can’t even get used to how beautiful his voice is, but to feel his touch is making you forget your entire vocabulary.

“Yes,” you whisper for lack of anything else, so deathly quiet you’re not sure you speak. His gaze is burning even though you don’t know it—can’t see it—and you swallow to wet your suddenly-dry throat. “It burns.” _More than that,_ you mentally chastise yourself. You are incinerating inside out and you feel the urge to throw off your blankets but the cold shivers chasing up and down your spine warn you otherwise. 

“Still? You gave it a good bacta spray once we got back, didn’t you? ” he asks quizzically, softly and you sigh, wiggling a bit. Bending your knees, your leg slides up the length of his thigh and you suck in a quivering breath as his fist tightens. You can sense it now, against your kneecap, knuckles nudging into your soft skin and he’s so _warm_ that you want to feel it everywhere.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t _know?_ ”

“Yes, I did. Maybe I’m sick, okay? Like, running a fever,” you mumble, trying to keep your voice down. “I feel hot and cold everywhere.”

“How long has this been going on?” His lips are so close you can feel his breath puffing against the bridge of your nose as you squeeze your eyes tight and curl into a tighter ball. Your knees trace up his side and your head bumps into his shoulder as you clutch onto the blanket and cup your neck. Pressing your thighs together, you swallow.

“I dunno. It makes me feel sick as shit, though. Like I’m sick of the pain,” you admit between breaths and his hand in the sheets relaxes a bit, pinkie brushing against your shin, and you exhale shakily at the touch, the way it seems to chase off the flushed heat all over you. His pinkie trails up and down your shin. You swallow, trying to calm your skipping heart. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —why did you choose to wear shorts tonight of all nights—

Maker, you don’t know how to explain how much you want him to touch you more, your calf, your hip, _everywhere…_ It makes everything feel better than just… laying here in the dark. Suffering. Fuck this shit. You just want him to touch you without any hesitation, take it—

His pinkie slides over your calf and you resist the urge to open your eyes, to watch the faceless man and his unreadable expression as he slowly takes hold of your calf, five agile fingers, roughened with callouses and searing against your muscles, wrapping around you. His index finger slots in the crease of your knee and you don’t say a word. In fact, you think you stop breathing as he adjusts to that feeling, as you adjust to him. His shoulder is smooth against your brow as he squeezes your calf and you inhale sharply, loudly in the silence.

Two seconds pass, and then you let it out in a fluttering airy breath that kisses his skin and he continues on holding your leg, thumb beginning those tender strokes over the bone. The pad of his thumb explores every dip, as few as there are, in your knee, feather-light as you imagine a kiss would be.

“Okay,” he breathes and you open your eyes, lifting your head from his shoulder and looking up at someone you don’t even know. 

“Okay?” you echo. “Mando—“

“You’re gonna be okay. We’re not gonna be hunted anymore. We have a few days off, and you’re going to sleep in. Heal.”

“What if I caught something? Like an infection in that cantina,” you ask and he snorts, running his hand down your calf and up again, short-circuiting every single nerve in your brain. You swallow, trying to breathe like a fucking sane human being but as he trails his palm up again, he brushes past your knee to the underside of your clenched thighs. The pads of his fingers dig gently, tentatively into your flesh as if to comfort you but if anything, it only makes you want to rip your own heart from your chest and eat it raw.

You wonder if his lips are softer than the soles of his hands…

“You didn’t.”

It seems to be more than just an answer to a simple question.

You frown, letting go of the blanketand reaching tentatively. You find his forearm with your weak fingers, trail down his arm. Your free hand still clutching onto your neck, you slide your palm down, finding his wrist and covering his knuckles with your own as his head shifts and you can see the line of his nose again. 

So he’s looking up. Okay.

They stay there for a while, hands atop one another, him gently squeezing your thigh whenever he feels like it, and it’s almost peaceful. Your heart resides in your throat, your fingers slipping into the crevices between his, and you’re almost holding hands as he fucking holds your leg.

It’s almost something on the verge of being actually real.

You could’ve laughed at such a word if you weren’t finding it hard to breathe at the moment— _almost_.

“How do you know?” you finally ask when the words pounding against your teeth get too loud in your head. A slip of bravery is all you need. “How do you know _you_ haven’t caught something either?”

His thumb stills its ministrations, and you watch his silhouette, the rise and fall of his chest.

“I just know.”

You frown.

“Mando…”

A low hum.

“Why aren’t you asleep yet?” Your question is innocent enough. His thumb brushes over your skin again and you sigh, your own fingers interlocking with his. Mando doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter, and you almost relax. Your shoulders drop back into your back, you feel yourself melt into the hard floor. 

This is normal. It’s starting… starting to feel more normal. 

You could get used to this.

“Because you aren’t.” You can hear his hair shift against the floor. “You need to sleep.”

“I can’t. I’m _sick._ ”

“Then, be sick. Rest. You’ll be fine in the morning. Just give the bacta spray time to work. You’ve overworked yourself today.” His hand, with yours still holding onto it, raises and he finds your chin so easily you can’t help but nearly freeze. You look where you know his eyes are as his thumb runs down the length of your jaw, and you move to let go of your hand but his fingers tighten over yours instantly, keeping you there where their joined hands are under your chin. You reach up with your free hand, encasing his between your palms and you duck your chin.

With a fluttering, flighty sense of courage, you press your lips against his knuckles.

His fingers tighten immediately, and you hold onto him harder as if he’ll break your hand if you don’t return the pain. Your mouth swipes over the knuckles of his fingers, rest against the notches at the base of his digits.

“Are you sure _you’re_ not sick, too, Mando?” you breathe teasingly against his skin, still smelling like oil, but something clean, too. Something sweet. He readjusts his grip on your fingers and you press your chin against his hand. “You feel warm.”

“Just run that way.”

“Mhm.” You know he can feel your voice in your throat and his fingers shift against yours, clenching, tensing. For some reason, you don’t know what else to say. Normally, you always know what to say, yet at this moment, in the darkness of a ship that’s somehow become your _home_ , you don’t. 

As your eyelids start to flutter shut, you dip your chin to your chest, mouth whispering over his hand, and he doesn’t pull away as you stay there, lips firmly pressed against his skin. Holding him, his hand alone, brings a sense of peace and you let the lull of the engines begin to sink into your ears, echo in your brain.

“Hey.” His deep voice prods at your burrowing consciousness and it rouses like a disturbed cat as your head tilts just enough that he knows you’re awake. You want to hum but you can’t even force enough air through your vocal cords with the absolute tranquility that’s overtaken your body as he shifts onto his side. You still have his hand clutched underneath your chin, and you barely register his other hand swiping over your hip before it’s there: a heavy, warm, welcomed presence.

“Mando?” you mumble sleepily as he drags you towards him and you let out a tiny sound when the blanket bunches up between them. He pulls it out immediately, spreading it so the blanket covers their bodies like they’re a single being. Your legs slip between his and his heat is scorching. “You’re so _warm._ ”

“And you’re running burning up.” He lets go of your hip for a moment to feel your forehead, and then his hand is at your waist again. “Go to sleep,” he says. 

Those three words don’t even sound like words anymore.

“Burning?” you echo dazedly as he draps an arm over your ribs. You keep your head low, find yourself staring into black expanse you know must be his chest or neck or something. “I’m freezing”

“No, you’re not. You’re definitely running a fever. Close your eyes.”

“Mando—“

“C’mon.” His hand flattens against your back and you swallow, arching away from his palm and into his body and he clears his throat meaningfully as your hips press flush against his on accident. Recoiling back, you look up at him and close your eyes. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, letting go of his hand with one of yours and reaching up tentatively to find his jaw. You go slow enough that he can see you coming, sense it, from a mile away and stop you, but when your palm moulds against his jaw, it is because he let you and when you trace the curve of his neck, it is because he allows it. His hand clamps down on your other hand and you smile, dipping your head briefly to kiss his tense knuckles before raising your eye line to him again.

Exploring is so much better when you can’t see, you realize. You build up the image you have of him in your head, with his smooth strong neck, a prominent pulsing vein, a bulging cord when you feel him swallow. His face is smooth and you smile faintly at the sensation of his lips against your fingers. It’s almost comforting. 

It makes him more human. More alive, almost, but you always knew he was alive. You’ve known it all along that the man underneath the mask is more humane than most who dare to show their face in the sun.

Your hand flutters tentatively over his jaw, finding his ear, and you can hear his breathing now that you’re closer, more attune to the fine details. There’s gentle warm air puffing against your fingers as you bypass the front of his face, accidentally tapping his nose and your smile grows quick as a flash as you drag down, brush over his lips.

His hand draped over your waist, limp until that moment, drags over to cup your side and he sucks in a breath as you explore the parameters of his mouth with your fingertips. It’s weirdly intimate in a way—certainly not something you foresaw yourself doing, but here you are, eyes closed and all, and here he is, mask off and all.

Soft curved lips as if he’s smiling a bit, and you trace that hint of a smile, memorize it into your fingerprints so that if someone were to stamp and ID you, they’d only see Mando’s smile, and you think it’s quite romantic, really, to know someone even if you were blind.

“Have you ever kissed someone, Mando?” you ask softly, index finger swiping underneath the curve of his bottom lip and trailing down to his chin. You trace his neck again, touching the spots you thought you had memorized only to find them a bit different. He’s far more relaxed under your gentle touch and his hand holding yours is more of a firm but loose grip, a gentle cage you could break from at any time.

You don’t want to.

Your hand finds the hem of his shirt and you trace back up again.

“What kind of question is that?” he asks, and you bite your lip to prevent yourself from grinning ear to ear. 

“I dunno. A curious one, I suppose.”

“Then, no.”

“Touchy subject?”

A pause. “No.”

“Okay.” You know he can feel you smiling as you lay side-by-side, shrouded faces they can’t quite see. You thumb his jawline, his fingers trace shapes into your back and you share a space so minimal between the two of you that you’re not sure if you breathe him in or he breathes you. 

Maybe there’s not a difference at all. Maybe, it’s okay to be two completed parts, entwined in one another to stay strong.

You hear the blanket shift as he lifts his hand off your back to touch your face, trace its parameters. His fingers float over your closed eyes, feel the smile in your cheeks, and he lets out a hum when he finds your lips.

“I was worried about you,” he confesses at last, and his fingers feel your smile shrink before finding your jaw, your chin, and tilting your head up a bit. “When you got shot.”

“I was worried about you, too,” you whisper, and you feel his heat come closer, his curled index finger under your chin press up. “Mando… I—“

“My name is Din. Din Djarin. You were… passing in and out of consciousness when Moff Gideon said it, but… I wanted you to know. It’s Din.”

You resist the urge to open your eyes in shock as his breath flutters over your mouth. You do all you can not to move as he lets go of your hands at last and props himself up on an elbow. The loss of his hand sends a cold shockwave up your forearms and you swallow. He felt _that_ , too.

He told you. Even though he could’ve left you in the dark—he told you.

Everything melts.

“Din,” you repeat softly. In your head, it echoes like a shot in an empty alleyway. _Din. Din. Din._ He lets out a sharp breath against your mouth when you say it, and his thumb presses into your jaw. “ _Din,_ I didn’t… I…”

He pauses and you chew on your bottom lip, trying to see if there’s some way you can say it that won’t sound utterly helpless, totally infatuated, but you can’t because you are. Helpless, infatuated, whatever it is that suits the searing pain in your body whenever you look at him.

“Please don’t die on me.”

And his reply is instantaneous: “I won’t.”

It is as much a confession as it is anything else: a promise, a vow. And you know Mando— _Din—_ takes those seriously.

And you squeeze his shoulder, feel his muscles flex and wane before you utter out, “Thank you.”

The moments before, you will remember clearly, and the moments after, but as you swallow down his words and feel his heart beating, feel him breathing under your palm, you won’t ever recall what you thought the instant Din kissed you.

It’s a split second where your mind wipes like some Jedi mind-trick, but then you realize that this is happening, that a mouth is pressed agains your own, that Din is kissing you and it’s a moment longer before you are kissing back. His hand traces the curve of your head, cups the back of your skull as your hand splays over the side of his neck.

He gently turns you onto your back, lips never ceasing against yours for a moment and you sigh. Your mouth opens under him and he leaves you for a moment to adorn your cheeks and jaw with kisses, the gentle scratch of his beard reminding you that this is actually fucking happening. Your other hand comes up to the other side of his neck and you simply hold him as he peppers kisses down your neck, up again, nose bumping against the underside of your jaw.

Your stomach is fluttering with every brush of his lips and as he explores your neck, your face, your mouth with dips of his tongue, tiny bites of your bottom lip. Your hand shoots up, meeting soft, dry hair that curls against your palms and you tilt your head up, letting out an open-mouthed sigh as he claims your lips again, every inch of your mouth, and you _taste_ it. Taste him, feel him. His hand prints into your skin, marks you as he traces the curve of your shoulder, thumbs the edge of your bandage, and you bend your leg, dragging your calf against his skin.

“Din,” you whisper as he pulls back and you suck in a heavy breath, chest rising and falling like you don’t even remember how to work your lungs, like he suffocates you, and he’s panting, too, exhales pluming against your chin as he kisses your chin, your ear. “Are you—are you sure?”

He stills beneath your hands and he draws back into your palms as you run your fingers down his back, and a niggling feeling in your stomach makes you clench your thighs together nervously. 

His stare is glossing down your face and you swallow, already violently regretting your words. But then he sighs as if conceding, and it’s such a gentle sound that your heart wilts. You feel him tilt his head just as his hand reaches up to cup your jaw, his thumb running over your bottom lip and you wish you could see it—the tenderness in his eyes so strong you can _feel_ it in the deepest recesses of your body. 

It’s not until you feel his face press into your neck, a “ _yes”_ so faintly murmured into your skin that you’re intimately aware of the fact that Din is before you, trusting you, and showing you that he does.

He kisses across your collarbone, his hand finding yours and you feel his face nuzzle into your palm, littering kisses into hand, around your thumb and the ring, down your wrist, and you let out a relieved sigh when he returns his attention to your neck, a hand sliding underneath your shirt. It trails up your stomach, brushing along the curve of your breast and you squirm on the floor impatiently, lips parted.

“Slowly,” you whisper pleadingly, and he nods, swinging a leg over you so he brackets your hips fully. His elbow is on one side of your head as he runs a hand up and down your side, admiring the shape of your body. Din’s nose drags up your cheek and you turn your head greedily, seeking his lips. He groans at your tiny gasp when his fingers brush over your nipple and he kisses you deeply, tongue against yours.

“Not gonna hurt you,” he assures against your mouth, hand covering your breast and he squeezes your breast, thumb crooking and a jolt shoots up your spine when he scratches your nipple. “Shit.”

“Din—“

“Fuck.” Your back arches, hips flush against his and you feel it, then, his dick hard as a rock between your legs and only separated by a layer of pants. “Fuck—“ Your hand shoots down between their bodies, cupping the erection and rubbing it up and down with a sly smile. He pants into your mouth, and you wrinkle your nose in your laughter as he dips his head, hiding his face in the crook of your neck.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, your other hand wrapping around your head and curling against the nape of his neck. “First time for everyone, y’know?” You kiss his head as he rocks into your hand, a groan ripping through his throat.

“Shit—y-you?”

“No. Lost it when I was a stupid kid,” you reply quietly. His lips find yours again and his tongue dips into your mouth as you tug at his hair. “Din—“

“I just want to touch you,” he murmurs gruffly against your lips and you smile, pecking his lips as his hand on your breast trails down your side again. “Shit, you’re so… you’re so _soft._ Pretty, too. Second I saw you.”

“Oh, come on,” you whisper fondly as his mouth finds yours again and you squeeze his dick. A groan spills into your mouth and you smile vindictively as his nose drags against yours, head tilting as his forehead pushes into yours. “I pointed a blaster the first time I saw you.”

“My type.” He covers your tit again, rolling a nipple between his fingers and you gasp against his mouth, hips twitching, the laughter that was just beginning to bubble in your mouth fading into a suppressed moan. “Good?”

“Fucking good,” you assure, reaching down to pull the blanket out of your way and tugging the hem of your shirt up as he ducks his head. His other arm wraps around your head and his whole body runs flush against yours. “Shit, get this—get this _off_ me, Din. Need to feel you—“

“Hold on.” He pushes himself up onto his knees, tugging his own shirt off and tossing it into some unknown corner of the cargo hold before he grabs your shirt, ripping it up and you raise your arms with a screwed up expression as he yanks it over your head. Falling back to his arms, he wraps his arms around your head, clasping his fingers and cradling you tight. Sheltered by his body, your heart blooms in your chest as you loop your own arms around his neck, exploring the muscled curve of his back. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, it doesn’t hurt that much.” His nose nudges against your cheek, checking in, and you’re melting at him checking in on you. “You?”

“Yeah, fine.”

Shit, it may be clunky, but this feels way better than your first time and you haven’t done anything more than get felt up. His tongue swipes along your bottom lip again and you pull him into a warm kiss, a slow one where they get to know each other’s mouth. Your fingers interlace along the back of his neck as he leans on an elbow, reaching with his other hand to trace the waistband of your shorts. Your thighs press together at his curious touch and your hands slide down to the side of his neck.

Stretching a hand down, you grab his hand and gently guide his hand, urging him to pull your shorts down before you hold his face again, arm draping around his neck and holding him close as he pulls back, panting. Chin tilted up, you press your lips into a satisfied smile and swallow, sucking in a breath as you lift your hips up so he can pull the shorts off around the curve of your ass. Shoving it down, he pants against your chin, trying to crane down far enough so you can fling the shorts off while your hands find the waist of his own pants.

“Can I—“

“Yes.”

You pull down and his erection springs free from the fabric, nudging against your hand as he takes over, shuffling and kicking his pants off, too and he tears your socks off while he’s at it before pressing his body flush against yours. His dick is hard against your thigh, a warm, heavy weight that makes your breath hitch as he takes a deep breath and you’re scorching from the sensation of his smooth skin against yours.

Cupping his cock, you run a finger up the underside and he jerks forward, a groan vibrating against your throat as his head drops against your cheek. Skin against skin contact is driving you fucking crazy—the smell of his skin so unfamiliar yet comforting that you can’t help but trace everything you can, commit it to memory. Hand raking up his back, you bend your knees and shift your hips, the tip of his dick teasing your soaking entrance. You don’t even recall feeling the floods but as your hand leaves his dick to explore his back, it’s unmistakable how fucking wet you are.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs huskily against your jaw.

“Should be telling you that.” His hand on your hip tightens, nails digging into your flesh and you bite your bottom lip, chin tilting up even higher. “Shit, Din—“ He bites lightly at your jaw as his fingers swipe at the inside of your thighs and you hear him curse under his breath.

“You’re so wet.” He’s breathless as he trails his hand inwards and finds your slit, weeping for him already. “H-how—“ His fingers trace your lips and you quiver, thighs clenching around his waist just as he experimentally sinks a finger into you. Gasping, you dig your fingers into his back and gasp, arching into him. It’s been so fucking _long_ that you nearly slip right then and there but you manage to hold on as another finger teases your slit. “ _Shit._ ”

His name rips through your mouth when his thumb butts up against your clit and you know he feels you clench down on his fingers because a guttural sound vibrates against your throat as he slowly rocks his palm against your cunt.

“Maker—“ Your legs jerk up, a sound catching in your throat. Knees against his hips, you wrap your legs around his thighs and tug him closer. You give him gentle squeeze and his whole body shoots forward, his open gasp against your cheek making you turn and you feel his ecstasy as clear as you could’ve seen it. 

“Needa… needa put it in. Shit, you’re so beautiful—“ 

Your thigh hooks on his hip and his fingers leave your slit, cupping your thigh against his waist. A pitiful whine spills out of your mouth as his arm around your head tightens, keeps you close and lips snag in another messy kiss as the tip of his cock teases you.

“Go,” you urge breathlessly between kisses, “put it in. _Shit,_ it’ll feel so good, Din. So good.” You don’t even know what you’re babbling but you’re burning up so hard that anywhere he touches would feel good. His fingers against your scalp, just him grabbing onto your thigh like he owns that shit— _Maker_ , you just want him to _move—_

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he mumbles and you grab his face, pulling him far enough so that he can look at you.

“Do it anyway,” you whisper, ankle digging into his back and angling your hips so his head just barely dips between your wet folds. He lets go of your thigh, brushing a hand over your face as he slowly pushes into you and your eyes, already closed, squeeze shut tighter in ecstasy as your head tilts back, exposing a vulnerable neck. Mouth dropping open, you try to suck in a breath as he fully sheathes in you and fingers flutter over your face, your eyelids, trace the ‘o’ of your lips.

“ _Pretty_ girl.” His voice is a barely-there rasp, strained as he drags his fingers down your neck. Interlocking your arms around his neck, you feel him completely—a warm, thick length unmoving deep inside you, and you wiggle your hips. He growls and you smile as he ducks his head, teeth razing along the cord of your throat. “ _Rude_ girl.”

“Take your time,” you tell him, fingers curling hair lazily along the back of his neck. “We have time—“

And then he rocks into you and your words die away as a hoarse sound comes out instead, shaking with pleasure.

You’re burning up—from the fever or from his touch, you don’t know—but you want to incinerate from the inside out as you bite down on your bottom lip. He pulls out slowly, the drag of his cock against your walls fucking blinding you with bliss. 

_Shit, shit, shit—_

“Din—“ _Fuck,_ he takes you slowly, pushing in again with a purpose. “Oh, _Maker_.”

“So tight.” His words push into the column of your throat and it’s intentional, the way he sinks until their hips are joined in searing harmony. Your guts are twisted up, a coil tightening with every micromovement and it’s everything inside you begging to beg. Let words spill out of your mouth without a thought but you can’t. You can’t even _breathe._ The heavy heat in your chest, the cottony feeling surrounding you on all sides—it’s too fucking much and yet, you want to die here. 

You could die here on this floor with his cock heavy inside you.

At most, fall asleep, because his warmth is everywhere, and you are being consumed by a fire you can’t and don’t want to douse. 

“Hey,” he whispers after a moment, voice still strained, and you let out a soft hum. “Are you about to fall asleep?”

“I might,” you admit, tilting your head into a hand that comes to cup your cheek. Kissing the fleshy joint of his thumb, you smile when he stretches his fingers to brush over your brow bone. “You just… you feel so good inside me, Din. You feel so good.” Your cunt clamps down and his palm runs over your forehead, firm enough that he tilts your head further up and his lips find your chin, your lips. “So good,” you whisper against his mouth and he groans. 

His hips shift against your thighs and you clench, gasping. “Oh, _fuck._ How do—always know what to say? Not always—got a mouth,” he corrects and you chuckle as he sucks on your bottom lip. “But shit—shit, you with the kid, with—with a blaster, and _shit_ , with Toro. My armour, and _you_ —I wanted you so badly—“ He’s babbling his ass off as he slowly pulls out of you, through your hot slick, and your mouth opens as he leaves you empty and you pull off his mouth, tugging his head into the crook of your neck so you can open your eyes to the small, black space between them. 

“Are—are you okay?” you ask and he groans against your skin. Raising your head, you keep one of your arms wrapped around his neck while your other hand trails down his chest, brushing along the sides, feeling every ridge of his rib, the soft skin of his waist before finding his hips and you trail inward. Hair tickles the pads of your digits as you stretch further and he doesn’t stop you, his breath puffing against your neck before kissing the edge of your bandage. “Din?”

“I’m okay,” he assures breathlessly. “Just—fuck”—your hand wraps around his cock, thumbing the head and it’s slick, warm, _so fucking thick_ —“Was just close. Didn’t want it to end—needs to be good for you—“

“It’s okay.” Scratching his head, you close your eyes again and fall back flat, your shoulder aching from holding yourself up for so long. You start jerking him off slowly, running your palm up and down in firm strokes. His breath puffs against your bandage. “It’s okay.”

“No—”

“Damn your fucking pride for a moment, Din—I’m closing my eyes, by the way.” Squeezing, you run your thumb over his tip and his hips stutter forward as you twist your wrist. “Cum inside me, Din. Take me—it’s okay. It feels good, I promise—“ He lets you guide his cock back into your warm folds and you bite down on your lip. He fills you perfectly, almost _too_ perfectly, and the fire stirrs inside you again, that cramping coil inside your stomach so tight it fucking _aches_. 

Maker, you want him to fuck you until you can’t walk, and by the stuttering breath in your ear, so does he, but he merely sinks to the hilt before pulling back again, and he sets a slow, deep pace. Explores the limits, and you let him take the reins on it as he rolls his hips flush against yours and your leg falls off his back. Forehead against forehead, noses brush as you grapple with his shoulders, trying to speak.

His arms curl around your head again, protecting you, his tongue massaging your own, dipping into your mouth, kissing you tenderly with every gentle, deep stroke. He reaches parts of you you didn’t even know you existed and you try to breathe through it, through the coil tightening, but you can’t—no, your thighs clench and you clamp down on him, ripping a groan from his throat.

“Fuck— _fuck_.” He reaches down with a hand, tilts your hips up to change the angle and he spears you even deeper. Bliss overwhelms you and you tear your mouth away from his to moan but he lets go of your hip, grabs your jaw, turning your face back towards him. His mouth covers yours and you moan into him, his fingers squeezing your chin. “Feel so good.” Words spill into your mouth as he rocks up, brushing against your spot that sends your vision to the shitter and your cognitive thought out into space. You can’t even remember your own name as he shifts, hitting that spot again and again with razor-sharp precision. “ _Shit_ —“

“Din, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —“

“You get so tight—“

“ _Oh, fuck…”_ Your voice fades as euphoria starts swimming and you can’t even see, white stars behind closed eyes. His thrusts grow sloppy and you jerk back against him, fingers digging crescent moon marks into his skin as you pull him flush against you. Your feet push against the floor as panting fills the air, and you swallow, gasping for air. Din’s voice breaks as he kisses your ear, your jaw, whispering nothings that mean everything. Flashing, blinding heat sears through your abdomen and you clamp down on his cock, the luxurious drag sending you into delirium. You’re about to snap—about to be thrown back into a mind-turning abyss of bliss—“Din, _shit—_ I’m so close—“

“Where?” he chokes out, his strokes less fluid rolls and more sharp, torturous snaps of his hips. The sound of flesh hitting flesh fills the air and you can feel the sweat gathering in the dip of his spine, the nape of his neck as he noses at your neck, licks a stripe up the uninjured side of your neck. His teeth are bared against your skin, eyes squeezed tight and his hand on your jaw squeezes tighter. As the pace of his thrusts quickens, you’re finding it hard to hear and hard to speak, but you still hear him, clear as crystal against your pulse. “Where can I—Where—“

“Fuck, inside. Cum inside me, please. Please, please, _please_ —“ 

You’re so fucking _close_ and you _whimper_ , trying to chase your own relief against him, grinding sinfully against his hips. He reaches down, lifting your hip against his rolling pelvis and the angle sends you spiralling. The swelling sensation grows and you begin to babble, a euphoric bubble growing with every fucking thrust into your weeping cunt and you’re so close—close to popping, close, close, _close—_

_“Come on. Just like that, just like that—D-Din, oh, shit, shit, shit—“_

He cums and cums _hard_. You feel his entire body shudder as he jolts forward, keeping you still as his mouth finds yours, trying to muffle the sounds torn from his chest. His groans, hitched breaths, sharp fucking needy _sounds_ spill into your mouth as he chases his release. His fingers lock on your hip, squeezing enough that it bruises, and you sigh against his soft, swollen mouth, soothing him, sucking on his bottom lip, letting him take what he needs. Pleasure makes your knees gummy and you gasp, pathetic sounds echoing against the roof of his mouth as you moan with every sharp thrust, every harsh drag of his cock against your slick walls until he softens and still then, spearing into you until he can’t.

He thrusts lazily into your drenched cunt and the cramping in your gut makes you squirm as he stutters to a halt inside you, and you want to reach down between them, press a finger to your clit in an attempt to just—just bring you over the edge he’s perched you precariously on—

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling out and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized had stalled in your chest as you try to ease yourself down from how tight you are basically belly button down. Your thighs press together, slick dripping down your thighs as he pulls himself off of you and flops onto his back, chest rising and falling rapidly and you smile, your body still shuddering from bliss. You roll onto your side and his hand slips between your thighs, sinking into the wet flesh. “Shit.”

“Are you okay?” you ask, dipping your head to kiss his bare shoulder and he turns his head. In the pitch dark, your eyes flutter open again and you swallow, feeling the hard coil in your gut begin to unwind. Wrapping your arms around his, you rest your cheek against his skin. “Was that good?”

“It—it was.” You can feel his stare on your face as he massages your thigh, fingers working into the muscle and you suppress a strange, airy giggle that wants to burst from your chest as you smile against him. “It was good. Are you—was that okay for you?”

“Perfect,” you assure him quietly as his pinkie travels up, just barely brushing the lips and you shiver, your breath rattling in your throat. “Din—“

“Did you cum?” he prods further, tentatively, and you know you can’t lie to him as you adjust your arms around his, reach down between your legs to cup his hand. Sighing, you shake your head.

“No, I—I didn’t, but it’s fine,” you quickly amend as he shoots up onto an elbow. Looking at the silhouette, you push on, “It was your first time—it was about you, and next time. Next time, we can—“ But he doesn’t let you finish whatever proposal you had because his fingers pull your thigh, dragging so you spin around a whole ninety degrees. He gets up onto his knees, grabbing your legs and dragging you towards him. The blankets swirl around them and you let out a yelp, your shoulder neck flaring up dully. “Ow.”

“Shit, shit, sorry,” he whispers, leaning over to kiss your neck but you stop him, replacing it with a quick kiss to the lips as your head knocks into his. A faint smile graces your face.

“Someone’s ready for round two,” you tease quietly, and he sucks in a breath.

“Just need you to feel good.”

“Okay. Okay, wait, can you move the blan—thank you.” He rips it away so there’s no chance of it getting in the way before he reaffirms his grip on your thighs, tugging you closer still towards him and your stomach twists in anticipation. He sounds really determined and you’re not gonna stop him, but really, you have to check: “You don’t have to. I can just, go into the fresher, you know, uh, or do it in front of you, I don’t—I don’t really mind—lights on and everything—“

“Would you?” he breathes, and you swallow at the dark growl edging into his voice as you wait for him to elaborate and he does moments later, and his voice is broken enough to send your mind places—scenarios where you ride him or he absolutely rails into you and you think _eventually._ They just need time. “Touch yourself in front of me, would you?”

“I trust you, Din,” is all you say and he scoots back, his hands still on your thighs. You frown when your feet nudge into something unfamiliar. His palms run down your legs, guiding them over two broad shoulders and your heart shoots into your head as you realize what he’s about to do. You feel your pulse everywhere as he urges you to lay back and you take a deep breath, laying back and staring up at the ceiling. You try not to shoot your hands into his hair and instead sink claw-like fingers into the floor, grabbing at nothing as his breath puffs against your aching cunt. 

“I wish I could see you,” he mumbles, nose bumping against your clit and you’re so strung out that your thighs twitch a bit to his amusement. He chuckles, lips mouthing along the slit and you let out a soft whimper, hands dragging against metal. “Know you’re so beautiful—too beautiful, shit—hurts sometimes to look at you. When you smile—“ His tongue slips, a testing touch between your folds and you jolt, mouth popping open in a soundless moan. “And I know when you cum, I won’t have seen anything prettier.”

“Oh, _Maker—“_ He grabs your hand, fingers interlocking like they’re meant to fit together and you squeeze down on his hand as he slots his mouth against your cunt and just goes for it, tongue thrusting into your slick. He laps you up like a man in a desert, slow, curling licks that send your eyes back into your head as you choke out a moan. Your ankles dig into his back as he sucks on your slit, exploring you like he thinks you deserve—preciously, delicately, and with a care that seems out of place in a warrior of his calibre, but you think it fits. You think everything about him fits together with the pieces of you. Like parts of his armour, it’s hard to find the flaw, hard to find where one plate of beskar ends and the other begins.

He sucks in a breath, twisting his head just enough to press a warm kiss in the juncture of your cunt and your thigh before doing the same to the other leg and you reach down, entangling your fingers in his hair. His other hand grabs onto your hip, keeping you still as he licks a stripe top to bottom, humming low in his throat. 

You toss your head back into the metal, an incoherent, but definitely loud, sound coming out of your chest. Unintentionally, you yank at his hair and he chuckles, lips whispering over your clit before he kisses it, tongue teasing the little nub like he’s having fun with it and you lurch, back arching off the floor.

He chuckles.

Oh, he’s definitely having fun.

The coil in your gut begins to wind up again, the euphoric bubble blowing up and your fingers tighten in his hair as you try to breathe but you can’t. It’s like the swelling pleasure takes over you, paralyzing your lungs and sending your mind into the abyss.

“Din,” you ramble, “Din, Din, Din—please, just like that—“ His mouth slots against your slit again and his tongue spears into you with fervor and then it fucking _curls. “Oh, fuck,_ just like that.”

“Are you close, pretty girl?” he mumbles and you nod, sucking in your bottom lip and trying to stifle a moan that rips through you anyway.

You last maybe another three seconds of his tongue curling so fucking sinfully in your cunt before your vision blasts white and you cum, clenching against nothing as he pulls his head back and you writhe on the floor, your mouth opened without shame. You buck against the air, trying to ride out your orgasm to the fullest extent and you must entertain him somehow because as you thrust against nothing, he crawls over you and smiles against your face, sinking his fingers into your swollen folds and you jolt upward. As you try to overcome the aftershocks and he massages your clit slowly, working you through it, you almost cry when his fingers brush against that tender spot that makes you fucking scream. Your arm wraps around his back, hugging him close and you muffle your sounds in his broad shoulder, teeth sinking into his skin. 

His fingers still sink into you, pull, play with your clit, and you convulse at the overstimulation, thighs clenching tight around his arm.

“Good?” he murmurs into your ear, drawing up their interlocked hands to your head and you sigh as he slowly pulls his hand out. A wave of exhaustion follows quickly after and you stifle a yawn as he kisses the corner of your mouth. “Did you just yawn?”

“Tried to stop it,” you admit, guilty as charged, and he chuckles as you laugh and push him off to your side, rolling on after him so you can hug him close. Wrapping your arms loosely around his chest, you let the promises of sleep lull you just as his arm curls against your back, his fingers tracing shapes into your bare shoulder blade. “And it _was_ good, Din. It was perfect.”

He hums deep in his chest as you tuck your body under his chin and slide your legs between his. Your neck only aches a little bit as he raises his head just enough to press a tiny kiss against the bandage and then stretches to pull the blanket back. Slick is dripping down your thighs and smears over the top of his own thigh as he tugs you flush against him and you let out a soft mumble of his name.

He doesn’t respond, so maybe he didn’t hear you. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. As you flatten your palm against his back, you feel the burning in your body reduce to a hearth nurtured in your chest, warming and thawing you from the inside out.

“Wanna fuck you next time,” he whispers into your hairline. “Give you what you deserve.”

You smile into his chest as his hand runs down your back, then up again, a comforting stroke that only encourages sleep to come closer to your pleasure-addled mind.

“Whatever you want,” you reply. “But, sleep first?”

“Sleep first,” he agrees.

.

You wake first only because something on your chest starts pulling at your ear and you jolt awake, sitting up only to see you sent the kid tumbling to the floor with a surprised coo. Rubbing at your eyes, you squint in the darkness and just barely make out the shape of his ears before picking him, tucking him into your arms and making a break for the fresher, grabbing your tossed shirt and picking up your discarded shorts on the way there. 

Setting the kid on the counter, you jump into your day-old clothes and flip on the lights, rounding on him.

“You can’t do that, okay, kid?” you scold first and his ears deflate as you sigh, checking your reflection in the mirror. You look more well-rested, and your neck doesn’t hurt anymore, so that’s good. “Your dad can’t be seen without his helmet on. You can’t just walk in when he doesn’t have it on, okay?” you continue, glancing at the kid. He cocks his head and you shrug, running a hand over his head. “I don’t know why. It’s just how he was raised.” A coo. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m pretty hungry so I’m going to grab breakfast for us and then we’ll head up to the cockpit to eat and see where to next, alright?”

The kid bobs and you take that as a yes.

In the cockpit, you mostly make sure they don’t drift into some asteroid belt or into enemy territory. There isn’t really a set destination and you try to bounce ideas off the kid but it’s like talking to a brick wall that only occasionally makes noise as he eats. Turning to face the nav panel, you flip on the autopilot and lean back, sighing. You’re full, you’re rested, and your injury’s pretty much healed besides any superficial marks.

Also, you had sex last night, which might add to it all.

Looking down at your ring, you twist it and watch it glimmer in the artificial light of the cabin before grabbing the cord you found in the sleeper pod and threading it through. 

You saw the kid had Din’s mythosaur necklace so you think it’s time to just… give him something in its place.

You’re a clan of three, now, after all. Yet, the thought, however touching it is, makes your stomach turn.

Hooking a clasp onto the ends, you make sure the knots are tight before testing the new necklace’s mechanics. It has a good tensile strength and when you tug it, it doesn’t even seem to give the inclination that it’ll break.

Again, your thoughts migrate to a path that you don’t even want to consider yet here you are, entertaining it. Frustrated, you set down the necklace and look out the windows, watching the stars. 

_Fuck._ Something Kuiil stuck with you, and now… now that they’re here and you know of Din’s mission to find more of the kid’s kind—

_No. Just… let it rest, even for a moment._

The door slides open and you spin the pilot chair around to see Din, back in his armour. He stands there with the kid and a laugh bubbles in your chest when the kid yawns, stretching his hands back towards you.

“When’d you sneak away?” you inquire as Din walks in and you lean into the pilot chair as the kid gargles.

“Wanna go back to your mom, kid?” Handing him back to you, Din sits down on the seat normally reserved for you while you cradle the kid close to your brest. The baby immediately settles down, burrowing his face into your shirt and your expression melts. “He won’t look at me,” Din observes.

“I may have told him off about seeing you without the helmet,” you admit sheepishly, running a finger down the back of the kid’s head. “Baby, you know you can look at Mando when he has his helmet _on,_ right?” you add to the Child who looks up at you, ears flopping when he hesitantly turns around in your arms. Din stares impassively at the kid and you hide your smile when the kid finally babbles. “See? You’re okay. Dad’s not mad if he has his helmet on.” You pick up the kid, settling him on your knee and leaning forward just as Din puts his elbows on his knees, cocking his head to watch the kid.

You shoot Din a quizzical look, trying to gauge his mood for the morning.

“Did you eat?”

“Yes.” 

Okay, then. 

The cord of your newly made necklace slips between your fingers and you play with it as you wait for him to speak again. You know something is bothering him. You just don’t know what, and all he needs to do is ask.

So they sit there in silence, watch the kid become enraptured with the cord until he’s pulling it along your fingers, tugging on even though the ring never surfaces, to his utter amazement. 

You could’ve smiled at him.

And then Din says: “You know what the Jedi are.”

So you don’t.

“Yes.”

“Moff Gideon… he said your grandmother was a Jedi.”

Unwavering: “Yes.”

“The Armourer, the Mandolorian who gave me this signet,” he says, pointing at the mudhorn on his right pauldron, “told me that the Child, the way he can move things with his mind—the Jedi… the sorcerers could do so as well.” He waits for your affirmation and you nod, looking down at the kid. You know, then, what question he wants to ask. It prods at his tongue, balances on his lips, and you swallow the difficult knot in your throat as your stomach shudders. 

But then, he doesn’t ask. 

Instead, he draws back, leaning into the co-pilot’s seat and asks, “Are there any Jedi left?”

“After the Great Purge?” A name comes to mind but you shake your head all the same. “Probably, but they wouldn’t show themselves now. And… wasn’t there that boy who won the war? With Organa.”

“Skywalker.”

“Yeah, him. Maybe he could help.”

“I’m not turning the kid over to New Republic officers,” Din replies and you can’t help but agree. Your heart hadn’t been in your suggestion. 

“Then, I don’t know anyone else,” you lie. 

“And whatever it is the Client wanted from you is something you can’t tell me,” he says. You nod. He dips his head, noting the necklace, and you follow his gaze, looking down at the kid. He’s grabbed your finger, frustrated with being unable to get the ring and you help him, stretching to get the band at the bottom of the cord and handing it to him.

“Din.” It feels strange to say his name in the daylight, and his helmet tilts up enough for you to know he’s looking at you. The kid turns the ring over in his hands and you look into his visor. “What the kid has—what the Jedi used and what you think is sorcery—it’s called the Force. Wherever we go, we need to find people who know how to train him.” Unsure, you stop for a moment, and then you tear your eyes away from him and look down at the Child. There has always been an inexplicable tug between you and the green baby, something you rarely encountered.

Yet, what feels like years ago, on Arvala-7, when you aimed a blaster at a beskar helmet and convinced a Mandalorian to bring you with him, you had felt it again.

Now, here you are.

“But that can wait,” you dismiss. “We’ll figure it out, right?” He dips his head and you smile, getting up to put the kid back in his pram floating near the right co-pilot seat. Tugging your necklace free, you run a finger down his little nose. The kid yawns and you stifle a chuckle, pressing the button to shut the pram and turning to Mando with a faint smile. “I have something for you.”

You sit down on the pilot’s chair again and lean onto your knees, the cord falling between your fingers. It hangs off your digits as you extend it towards him. He stares at your hand for a moment, and you’re not sure if your offering is about to be declined or not.

He knows what the ring means, to some extent, and you rush to explain. “I just realized you don’t have your mythosaur necklace anymore, but—“

“I can’t take this,” he says despite his fingers stretching to take the cord, letting the necklace hang from his hand. He stares at the thing, and you clasp your hands, nervously playing with your fingers.

“You’re not _taking_ it.” Watching him lift the necklace to the light, your eyebrows furrow hopefully. “I’m giving it to you.”

“But your grandfather—“

“I have the weapon—my grandmother’s weapon. It’s enough to remind me of my family, and my legacy,” you say. He lowers the necklace again, resting the band in his palm and you reach forward, folding his fingers over the silver with a tender smile. “I want you to have something, too, from someone who cares about you. Because there are people, Din, that care about you.”

His stare burns into his palm and you swallow nervously, letting go of his hand and drawing back into yourself. Tentatively, he unclasps the necklace and secures it around his neck, pinching the piece of jewellery between his thumb and index finger. It rocks back and forth in his grip before he lets it drop with a soft _clatter_ against his cuirass.

Then, a soft, gentle: “Close your eyes.”

Eyes widening, your gaze snaps up from the ring that sits so perfectly on his chest to his visor. “What?”

“Close your eyes,” he repeats. 

Confused, your brow wrinkles and you do as he asks, sitting back. Waiting, you’re not sure what you’re supposed to expect until a gloved hand touches your neck, slides to your jaw and you open your mouth to question the touch before a soft pair of lips press against yours. The ring swings against your sternum as you let out a quiet noise of surprise, but it fades when Din’s mouth leaves yours for just a split-second, and comes back again. 

The kiss is softer than summer Kijimi snows, tender and quiet and unassuming, and your heart pounds against your sternum as his glove trails down your jaw until he takes hold of your chin and pulls back enough for his forehead to knock into yours. Soft, downy hair brushes against your face and you wrinkle your nose at the ticklish sensation.

A thumb brushes over your lip and you smile.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, and a chill crawls down your spine. You don’t know if you’ll ever get used to hearing that gorgeous voice, but you’re not sure you want to when he has this effect on you. His mouth brushes near your lips again and you reach up to thread your fingers through his hair, the warmth of his cheeks feeding the fire in your palms. 

“Keep it safe, okay?” you breathe, the space between them so minimal that you can feel his gentle breathing. You hold him close, pour everything you can into the forehead touch. _Keep my heart safe._

“I will,” he promises. He pulls back, his lips brushing against your brow as he straightens up again, and you keep your eyes closed as he stands there in the silence. You can’t help the flustered smile from tugging at your mouth as you cover your eyes with your hands and he sighs. “You were right.”

“Obviously, but what about this time?” you ask curiously as you think he puts his helmet back on. He pulls you off the pilot’s seat by the arms, a silent tell that you can look again and you turn around, opening your eyes and frowning. He spins to face the controls and you arch an eyebrow. “ _Mando._ ”

“I have a type,” is all he says.

You roll your eyes as he puts in co-ordinates and pushes a lever forward. 

They jump into hyperspace and disappear.


End file.
